


A Spark's Worth

by Sziondaisy



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Abuse, Angst, Domestic Violence, M/M, More warnings to come as new chapters are added, Multi, Slave coding, Slavery, Violence, domestic abuse, smut in later chapters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-06
Updated: 2017-08-26
Packaged: 2017-12-22 14:25:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 26
Words: 152,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/914258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sziondaisy/pseuds/Sziondaisy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not the frame that makes the mech but the spark inside, even a mass produced, disposable rifle has a unique spark, but it takes a special mech to notice. <br/>Can a mech known for being evil and cold ever have a good reason to make bad choices and do bad things? Vos wishes his life had come with a manual because he doesn't know if he's ever made a good decision in his whole life. </p><p>How did Vos - a disposable rifle previously known as Scope - end up joining the DJD and just what will he do to keep Perceptor safe?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't written anything in a long time but this bunny has been eating at me for months so I figured it was time to get back into writing. 
> 
> It's all headcanon and although I'm trying to stick to MTMTE canon, I don't know the comics well enough to promise it will always be true to canon. There isn't much to go on with Vos anyway and I'll probably be proved wrong as soon as he reappears in the comics but this is a labour of love. 
> 
> I'll add tags as I add each chapter and list any trigger warnings for each chapter in the notes. Eventually this will be mostly centred around Perceptor and Vos' relationship, but it will be a while, I have plans before that happens.

The first sound to ever break free of 113's vocaliser was a raw, static scream fuelled by pain and fear that echoed around the observation room. Terror surged through the newly sparked rifle as he twisted and jerked into impossible positions in a desperate attempt to free himself from the padded cuffs that cruelly kept him tight against the work slab. Warnings flashed in 113's field of vision, obscuring the world around him in a wall of red flashes and black writing. Fuelled into a second panic by the seemingly urgent warnings, 113 pulled and screamed for help. No one came. 

It took time for 113's systems to settle, but as they did the warnings slowed to a trickle until there were just three left; low fuel, a safety block on his firing system and missing owner code. 

Exhausted, 113 dropped back to the berth, his frame still tight and ready to fight. Although 113 was faceless and therefore unable to show emotion, the stress was visible in his body, from the tight cabling, raging vents, overheating frame and racing spark to the way his fingers twitched against the berth as he clicked with his vocaliser for attention. 

Questions surged through his mind, where was he? Where were his creators? Why was he restrained? Where was his owner code? Why was he so hungry? Why was there a block on his firing systems? Why couldn't he protect himself? What was going to happen to him? He tried calling out again, his voice high pitched and nervous. What if no one ever came for him? He'd offline before he'd even had a chance to live a life. 

Alone, upset and certain he'd been abandoned, 113 tried to sit up and look around the room but the restraints stopped him from doing more than lifting his head. Bright lights assaulted his primitive optic sensors, burning into his processor. Like all rifles his optic sensors were simple, allowing him to see basic shapes and colours in his root mode so he wouldn't constantly walk into things. As a rifle the more important job of aiming would fall to his owner and his targeting systems - which were the best available, he could calculate distance, wind speed, angle and margin of error in less than a second, offering that knowledge to his owner through a simple spark bond. The spark bond was weak, barely strong enough to pass information through, but strong enough that the rifle would always search out his owner should they get split up.

The room was quiet except for the hum of machines and the flicker of a faulty light overhead and 113 could see why. He could just make out the rows of sleeping mechs, each attached to a spark monitor with a large readout screen and a drip feed system straight into their tanks. How many mechs were in the room he couldn't tell, but the mechs on his left and right were in deep stasis - as he assumed he should be himself. Safe in false protection that deep stasis offered, the other rifles would never know the horrors of the room or waking up alone. 113 envied them. 

He noticed that one of the mechs a few berths across from his own had a screen that blinked red unlike the others which were solid green and he craned his neck to see what was happening but quickly turned away and tried to ignore it. Something was wrong with the mech, he could feel it in his spark. Nervously he tilted his head back to see his own monitoring screen, it showed his pulse rate, energy levels and system checks with coloured lines that moved slowly across the screen, but all he cared about was that his screen was green and for the most part it was there was just one small part highlighted in red. The majority green must have meant it was good though, at least that is what he hoped. Above him the bright lights glared down on his frame, illuminating any imperfections in his paintwork. For the most part his frame was flawless, but around the cuffs he'd scratched the paint enough to see the silvery base metal underneath. 

The sound of shouting and banging startled him and pulled him from his thoughts. Within a few kliks everything was noisy and the green screen was forgotten as he tried to determine whether the sounds were good or bad. Outside the room mechs were coming back from their breaks to start the second part of their shift, machinery whirred to life, voices shouted over the factory noises and heavy carts rattled as they were pushed along the tracks. Machinery coughed and spluttered as it churned out new frame parts and dropped them into bins with a clatter. 113 could hear the voices just outside the door behind him, so close and yet so far, if one of them heard him then would they come? The large room filled with a low whine broken up by soft clicks, the sound of a young distressed mechlet calling for their caretaker. He wanted someone to bring him comfort and cuddle him as they explained why his owner code was empty. Did no one want him? Was he chained up because he was useless? Was he destined to be alone forever? 113 wanted answers. He wanted his owner to love him, he would be good for them!

Owner.

The word was simultaneously the most terrifying and the most comforting word he'd ever heard. He didn't want to belong to anyone, but at the same time having an owner would mean someone would look after him and that would mean he was wanted, even if it was just because he was a slave. It was a heavy word with a cruel meaning that struck fear into his already scared spark making it beat harder until he was sure it would break free of his chest.

A sound that had gone unnoticed was the beeping of the spark rate monitor but as soon as 113 noticed it, it was all he could hear. It beeped with an urgency, the 'bip, bip, bip' speeding up as 113 cried. The rifle twisted on the berth until it hurt, scuffing the once pristine purple paint where the cuffs were. He tried his best to break the restraints and get away from the machine he'd obviously upset. /I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry,/ he called, but the machine didn't slow and the chastising 'bip, bip' continued. 113's vents were running ragged, drawing in cool air with a stutter. Now he'd upset the machine, surely someone would come to comfort it and he could ask for help while they were there. 

It was pure leap of faith that 113 made, deciding that if he lay still and stayed quiet then the machine wouldn't shout at him any more. So he gave up fighting and offlined his optics, blocking out all the sounds and listening only to the beeping machine. The beeping was a good distraction from his thoughts and worries and it worked to calm him down, as his realised his spark was in the same rhythm and the machine was slowing down. He'd been right, the machine was happy when he behaved.

113 wasn't sure how long he'd been awake, time was a strange thing when it was measured in 'bip....bip's. He did know it had been three thousand and ninety four bips that the machine had been happy with him. The machine cared for him and got upset when he was upset, it had helped to calm him down and had held him tightly when he fought. When he really thought about it, the machine was like a creator, it checked him over for damage and sang him the relaxing bipbip song to calm down with, it was protective of him. The last logical leap he'd taken had worked well, so 113 took another and came to the conclusion the machine was his creator. Knowing that made everything ok, his creator had restrained him to keep him safe and protected and that meant his creator was a kind mech, even if his creator talked in a language he didn't understand.

Turning his head, 113 nuzzled his cheek against the warm metal of the berth and purred his engine softly, /thank you./

Knowing he was with his creator made him happy, there was nothing to be afraid of if his creator was there to take care of him. It worked in theory but when the door flew open a few breems later, 113 panicked. The sounds of the outside factory filled the room, drowning out the sounds he'd become accustomed to. The smell that accompanied the sound was thick and metallic, made worse by the heat that made it feel that the outside was a furnace. If 113 could imagine the Pit, the world outside his room was it, not seeing the factory didn't make it any better, his imagination decided it was scary, so it was. As the door slammed shut it brought a blessed relief, locking the Pit back outside where it belonged. Two mechs were inside his room now, 113 could hear them laugh, but they were too far away to understand. His creator started beeping faster again and 113 realised his spark was racing, his creator was right, the new mechs were scary!

It didn't take long for one of the mechs to follow the raised spark rate sound to the correct console. He was a heavy built mech with chipped green paint and a missing optic, smears of oil and dirt covered his frame and energon leaked down his side from a long gash the mech was obviously ignoring. Splice ignored 113 as he tapped into the console to find out why 113 wasn't still in stasis, his thick fingers leaving smudges of dirt on the white keys. "Hey, Fasttrack, one of your mechs is online."

"Defective?" Fasttrack called back.

"Nah, doesn't look it. Screen's green. Looks like a vocaliser update needed a reboot to set and the forced shut down didn't initiate when it was done."

"What number?"

"113."

Fasttrack rubbed a hand over his dirty face and walked over, his thin frame weaving easily between the tightly packed berths. "He shouldn't be online yet, he isn't sold. Boss'll have my head if we end up scrapping another one because the owner code doesn't stick. We've already scrapped three in the last batch because they came back defective. It's this console too, it doesn't update properly, I've tried to get a mech to come and fix it but they're all busy setting up the new wing."

"Engineers, you know what they're like, they like making new things and put off repairing the old machines. It was the same with one of the stamping machines, it took cycles to finally get it fixed. Don't worry about the code though, It'll stick, you just gotta push it a bit harder so he can't reject it." Splice's smile turned cruel, "electrocute him, give his processor some pain to focus on while the code sets. He'll be in too much pain to fight the upload."

/No, please,/ 113 pleaded, fighting the restraints, /I don't want pain! Please just let me go./

Fasttrack looked surprised at 113's choice of words and looked through the coding update to find the problem, "why the frag is it speaking that slag?" He tutted in annoyance when he found the problem was again to do with the machine and sent a report to his manager so he could deal with it. He wasn't moved by 113's continued pleas and plugged a few loose wires back into place. "Fragging rifles, I'm sure they're harder to care for than datamechs. I've never had a stick mech with a problem, rifles though, we smelt so many of them for complications."

/No, please, don't smelt me!/ 113 cried, tugging on the restraints as hard as he could. 

Splice chuckled, pressing a large hand to 113's chest to pin him down, "rifles are more volatile for sure. Was it last batch that Cram was shot?"

Fasttrack chuckled, "yeah, fragging rifle nearly blew his head clean off. Serves him right anyway, you don't cuddle a rifle."

113 tried to force himself to stay awake and keep fighting but the effort was futile as Fasttrack forced him back into deep stasis with a few taps of the keypad. 

He recharged for thirty-six cycles, but it could have been a thousand years for all he knew. 

\------

 

His second onlining was less scary - almost pleasant - and 113 was pleased to find the restraints gone so he could move freely. He'd woken in a quiet room away from the outside noises of the factory. Soft lighting illuminated the room in a cold, blue toned light, the far end of the room was more inviting where warm, yellow light beamed through the glass door and pooled on the floor. Not as inviting and safe as his creator had made him feel but comforting enough. 

He lay sprawled out over a padded bench like a puppet with no strings, just a mass of limbs flopped out at uncomfortable looking angles. With a groan, 113 pushed himself up on one arm and he rubbed his head with the other to try and relieve the burn of the new coding. 

The new coding. His spark skipped a beat as he examined the new code and found his owner's name. Tripwire, it sounded like a good name, not too mean sounding but not a pushover mech either. It was a sneaky name and 113 imagined his owner to be a spy, he'd spend his life sneaking around and working from the shadows. That was exiting. He read further down his coding and found his own name, a good name. Not immediately recognisable as a rifle name like Trigger or Recoil which meant mechs wouldn't know what was coming when his owner called for him. He liked it and if his owner had picked it for him then he liked his owner's taste in names. Now he just needed to remember his name when he introduced himself. He was Scope, not 113, no more was he just a number. 

There were three other rifles in the room with the same faceless features and circular optic holes. It was the first time Scope had been able to really see his frame and he looked long and hard at the other rifles. Tall, slender, long-limbed, faceless figures made up of sharp angles and sharper claws, deadly but handsome in their own way. 

Scope's only difference was the language pack he carried and it was already a disability to him. Primal Vernacular was an old language that had been replaced with the easier and much simpler Neocybex vorns ago. Now the primal language was mostly used by priests and educated mechs who preferred the original and more descriptive language. Of course for a rifle who only spoke the old tongue, Scope had to wait for an owner who could understand him and who wouldn't mind owning a rifle few else could understand. Scope had spent a long time in stasis as he waited to be paired with an owner, his batch brothers were all sold and the three following batches had also gone to new homes. Scope was unaware of just how close he'd come to never waking up again, his smelting date was set, but like a beacon of light Tripwire had come just on time and agreed to take him for a discount. 

On paper, Tripwire seemed like a perfect match for a rifle, he came from a rich family, but had been kicked out of his home for stealing credits from his parents, now he was living in a poorer neighbourhood as he learnt to live on a students loan. The neighbourhood was known for being a dangerous area with a seedy underbelly of buymechs, gambling dens and mercenary work. Unable to afford a proper bodyguard, Tripwire had taken the next best option. The factory took advantage of his desperation for a rifle, making it sound like they were offering him a great deal with 113, Tripwire had snapped him up. Hardsell, who had been trying to sell 113, was pleased, breaking even on a rifle was better than taking a complete loss.

Scope could feel his owner's name deep in his coding and he cradled it protectively. As artificial as it was, the young rifle felt unconditional love towards Tripwire and a protective instinct so strong that he'd offline himself to give Tripwire a chance of escape. 

It made him angry that he'd forefit his life so easily for a mech he hadn't even met, but he would, without question because Tripwire was his to protect. 

Scope sat up, swinging his lanky limbs off the bench and taking a better look around the room, hoping to see Tripwire waiting for him. Instead the room was in a pleasant, calm silence. The other three rifles ignored him, two of them sitting together in the corner with their limbs intertwined as they whispered words of comfort to each other and the third rifle paced by the door excitedly waiting to show his owner the new barrel that gleamed against his old, dirty paint.

/Where are we?/ Scope asked, pushing himself up to his feet and staggering forward as he tried to find his balance on the polished metal floor.

The mech by the door looked over his shoulder and turned slowly to face Scope, "what's that? Can't you talk properly?"

Scope cocked his head, his words sounded identical to the other mechs, /I am talking, I asked you a question. Where are we?/

Rebound ran over excitedly and grabbed Scope's shoulders, undeterred as the younger rifle tried to jerk away from him obviously uncomfortable with the contact. "You talk the same way the priests do. My owner takes me there sometimes and the priests all sound funny, it's the language of Primus or something. The old language. They talk just like you do except they never stop talking and they always put oil on your head too and they give you treats and say that Primus loves you even if your spark is small. My owner says they're right and no mech is worthless but then everyone else says that I'm worthless and that my owner shouldn't teach me things that aren't true. I think everyone else is wrong though, I mean if I was worthless then the priests wouldn't tell me that Primus loved me. They'd go and say it to someone else. You can maybe go and see the priests one day, you'd understand what they were saying wouldn't you? I think they just talk all the time because they don't know how to stop and they think Primus will forget them if they are quiet even for a second. I don't think Primus could forget anyone, he's God see. Gods can't forget things."

Scope pulled back at the mass of words flying at him, the mech spoke so fast that he'd barely heard a word of it, his processor struggling to translate what was being said. Although each word registered as a word, the meaning was lost on him. Frightened and overwhelmed with new sensations, Scope took a few steps back and raised his hands to keep the other mech from grabbing him again. 

Rebound patted him on the arm and spoke a bit slower, sensing the confusion and upset in Scope's EMF. "You're new online, huh? I remember how that felt, don't worry though, it will pass in a few cycles and then you'll be used to everything, it just takes time for all the new systems to settle into place. It's all a bit confusing and I don't get it myself, but my owner says that it's because our sparks go straight into adult frames and they don't have time to get used to things like they do if you start in a mechlet frame. You'll see though, in a few cycles you'll be just like me."

Scope couldn't imagine that, Rebound spoke too much and most of it was pointless information. Scope was a straight to the point mech and useless information was a waste of time and energy. In all the words that had fallen from Rebound's vocal processor, not one was an answer to the question that he'd originally asked. He went to ask again, but Rebound had taken a seat on the bench and started talking, Scope couldn't get a word in.

For the next five breems, Rebound didn't stop talking and Scope had his companion's entire life story by the end of the first two. Rebound's life seemed perfect, he was loved and cared for, had friends with other rifles and his owner spared no expense to keep him happy. To Scope who knew nothing of his new owner except a name, it was the life he dreamed of and he prayed that Tripwire would be a kind owner. 

Destiny was not on his side. 

\----

Tripwire turned out to be everything that Scope didn't want in an owner. As soon as he laid optics on him he feared for his safety, Tripwire was a tall and slender mech, handsome and cold looking, his frame was angular and sharp and Scope thought he looked as if he was made of knives. Tripwire used his size and glare to intimidate mechs into submission, he dwarfed Scope in both size and bulk, even Hardsell - who wasn't much smaller - was nervous around him. 

Scope's first impression was fear and he had to force himself not to step away as Tripwire grabbed him and forced to transform. His owner's grip was as hard as his optics and he grunted disapprovingly as Scope's plating made a harsh grating sound under his servos. "Are you sure it's made to your highest quality? It feels fragile compared to my last rifle."

The salesmech nodded and held out the list of checks that Scope had passed, "yes, Sir. 113 is our latest model, built to be stronger and lighter than the previous ones. He's built to be compact but hardy, you have our word he'll be able to handle what you use him for."

"And if it doesn't?"

Hardsell frowned, "you have a three solar cycle guarantee if he doesn't, but I assure you he will."

Tripwire looked down the scope and fired a few rounds into the target as he thought about that. Seemingly satisfied, he dropped Scope and took the datapad. 

Scope clattered to the floor, sounding distressed as he transformed and cowered away. 

Tripwire's optics hardened as he watched Scope take a few shuffling steps back, holding his arm with a quiet whimper of pain. "You stupid glitch, you're supposed to transform before you hit the floor. Did they teach you nothing here?"

The blow to the back of Scope's head sent him staggering a few steps to the right and he offlined his vocaliser to save himself from another hit. Optics downcast submissively, Scope vented raggedly, this wasn't the owner he'd imagined.

Hardsell almost felt bad for the rifle, but disposables were called that for a reason. The lifespan of a rifle was incredibly short compared to most mechs and often they were found abandoned when they were considered useless. With Tripwire, Hardsell couldn't imagine Scope would be around long enough to be abandoned and it really didn't matter to him. As long as he was paid then Scope's welfare was no concern of his. Part of him would always feel bad though.

"I'll give you four-hundred and fifty credits for him," Tripwire offered, his voice hard. 

"I can't do that, you already agreed on six-fifty when you were offered him, he's been slave coded to your spark frequency and he's registered to your name. He's already the fraction of what a undamaged rifle would cost and four-fifty barely covers his manufacturing costs."

Tripwire handed the datapad back to Hardsell, "then I am not interested, he is not worth more than four-fifty. You shouldn't have coded him to me when I said I would inspect him first."

Hardsell bit back on a growl and quieted his engine, "inspect? You practically screamed down the comm. line that you would take him for manufacturing cost. You begged me not to sell him to anyone else and you sent your details along with the deposit of two hundred credits. You agreed to the price, not to an inspection."

Tripwire wasn't used to not getting his own way, coming from a tower family he'd lived a spoilt life, never wanting for anything and always having the best of everything. Having a mech say no to him was new and he didn't like it. "Five hundred is my final offer and I won't pay a credit more. Who else are you going to sell him too? No one, like you said, he's already coded to me. So take my credits or scrap him and make a loss. It's your choice."

Hardsell had been caught in a trap and he didn't like it, it was going to end badly whatever he chose and he struggled to find an option that wouldn't have his boss tearing into him. He'd made a big mistake in pre-coding 113 to a new owner before payment, but he'd been so desperate to get rid of the rifle before he'd had to scrap him and tell his boss about another loss that he'd overlooked procedure in the hope of a quick sell. He watched Tripwire shrug and walk away, quickly made a decision, "alright, alright, five hundred and he's yours."

Tripwire paused, "Four-seventy."

"You just said five hundred!" 

"You're obviously desperate to get rid of the rifle so the way I see it is that I'm doing you a favour."

Hardsell squared his shoulders, gritting his dentals together as he looked over at Scope who'd moved into a corner to cradle his sore arm, withdrawing himself from the conversation in a poor attempt at being forgotten. It was a pitiful sight, but being sent with Tripwire at least gave the rifle a chance at life, if he stayed then he'd be recycled. "Fine," he agreed, patting Scope's shoulder and muttering an apology as he passed, grabbing the datapad from the desk for Tripwire to sign. 

It took a breem to finalise everything and 113 was led off to start his new life as Scope. Tripwire didn't look back at his new purchase, expecting the rifle to keep up even if he had to run. He needn't have worried, Scope stuck close like glue where it was safe. Even though Scope was terrified of Tripwire, the mech was all he knew and the world was a lot bigger and scarier than he'd ever imagined.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This took a lot longer than I intended, sorry about that. I had a lot of ideas and I couldn't decide which one to take. 
> 
> Trigger warnings in this chapter for domestic abuse and sort of drug use.

Night-time in the slums was an experience that Scope never wanted to repeat. Swarms of lowlifes, buy mechs, thieves and off-duty miners spending what little disposable income they had. The energon flowed freely in the many bars and clubs that lined the wide street, outside, mechs crowded around street gambling tables; gambling on rigged games they were destined to lose. The air was electric and hot, vibrating with the excitement of laughing, happy mechs who ignored the seedy side of their home city. 

Somewhere close in the maze of streets, a mech screamed loud enough to be heard over the music pouring from the clubs and the constant chatter of mechs. Gunshots followed the shouts and everything in the street went eerily silent for a few kliks as mechs stopped to listen. 

Scope wasn't so easily put at ease, shots in the slums were not unusual, but hearing them outside was worse than from the safety of their home. Just being in the crowd had him on edge, but the shots brought him to a frenzied panic. Logically he knew the shots weren't aimed at Tripwire, but anyone could be caught in the crossfire. His calculations were done in less than a klik as his battle computer fired through the data. The results were the same after the third retry; the chances of Tripwire being hit by blaster fire originating from a few streets over was so small that it barely registered in terms of probability. Scope felt better with the results telling him not to worry, but not by much, there was still a chance the shooter could run past them or that turning the corner into their street would have them run into the mech. 

“Hurry up, rifle,” Tripwire shouted over the street noise to be heard, turning from his brisk pace to glare at him.

Scope didn't need to be told twice, he stuck to Tripwire's side like glue, his short legs working twice as fast as his owner's just to keep up. When Tripwire sped up, Scope was forced into a run. 

It was a nightmare for Scope who – thanks to the gunshots – now registered every mech as a potential attacker, every side alley became the perfect place for a mugging, every high window as an ideal sniper spot. His battle computer constantly churned through the data provided by his sensory inputs, updating all potential dangers into his vision and highlighting the biggest threats in a red glow for easier avoidance. The plan to keep Tripwire safe changed every few steps and Scope was mentally exhausted trying to process the data fast enough, never before had he had to deal with so much information so fast. Even if there was no REAL threat, he wasn't taking the chance of closing his battle systems offline. 

Tripwire walked confidently, back-struts straight, shoulders back, exuding an air of confidence and danger. There was no room for argument, he owned the street and mechs moved out of his way, if they didn't then he barged past like he had the right. It was one of the few times Scope was actually thankful his owner was terrifying. Only a mech was half a processor would think about attacking a mech as big and strong as Tripwire, especially one with a rifle at his side, but the world was full of stupid mechs. There were easier targets for muggers and narcotic dealers to accost, ones covered in rust and stumbling down the street practically begging for their next hit.

A large group of mechs poured into the street from a large club on the corner, laughing as they carried a mech between them. The mech was obviously overcharged and dragged his feet as he was pulled along. It was a celebration of some kind, they sang loudly and Scope heard the words to a crude mining song filled with innuendos about big drills and larger pickaxes. 

Terrified didn't even begin to cover how Scope felt as they approached the mechs and they didn't move out of the way. He wouldn't put it past Tripwire to punch one of them, that would start a fight and the mechs vastly outnumbered them.

“Stop that,” Tripwire growled, obviously picking up on his rifle's distress through the light bond they shared. 

/Yes, sir. Sorry, sir,/ he replied apologetically. The order didn't help, the miners were all heavily built and dented. They looked like fighters and Scope decided they were high risk and marked them as such. He was low on fuel and there was a danger warning flash up as he brought his firing systems online. 

Tripwire glared down at his rifle, “stop stressing out, you're making me uncomfortable. Most of these mechs are miners, they have no problem with us and the lowlifes are too busy trying to drum up business with mechs they know have just been paid. We're of no interest to them tonight.”

Scope looked up at his owner and gave a slight nod. He took more comfort from those words than was perhaps safe to do, but logically Tripwire was right. He was always right, there was no place for a rifle who questioned his owner. Ever.

Much to his relief, the singing miners were no trouble. They were so wrapped up in their crass song and dance that they barely even registered Tripwire had cut through the group. 

As soon as they were past the mechs, Tripwire grabbed his arm and dragged him through the thinning crowd of overcharged miners and buy mechs. Struggling to keep up with the fast pace, Scope tripped and stumbled, but the tight grip on his upper arm stopped him from falling. Mechs shouted apologies but Scope ignored them in favour of making his legs work faster. 

A few quick turns down empty streets – a blessed relief after the main street – and the converted office block they called home reared its ugly head. Scope felt a surge of renewed energy and ran beside Tripwire as desperation replaced panic. Just a little more and they would be safe inside. The building – like most in the area – was a shadow of its former glory, fading paint peeled from the walls and a thick layer of crystalised dust stuck to the floor where wall met pavement. Above the door the sign of the business that had once occupied the building was barely readable, acid rain having eaten away most of the paint. 

It was dirty and ugly and uncomfortable, but the building was home. Scope sagged in relief. 

The front door was reinforced with thick bars that had obviously taken many batterings, both from Enforcers and civilians trying to break in. Tripwire typed in the code and the door opened with a loud click as the locks disengaged. The hallway was no better than the outside, shared by everyone in the building, the floor was cracked and scuffed, stained and pitted with unknown liquids. 

Tripwire jogged up stairs that sagged in the middle from vorns of continuous use, followed by Scope who took two at a time to keep up. On the second floor a fresh pool of energon dripped from the top step, the injured mech long gone. Scope sidestepped the sticky, pink pool and caught his owner sneering at him. Tripwire scoffed, “what a useless rifle, afraid of a little spilled energon, how absurd. You'll be spilling it yourself one day, head shots and spark shots, watching your mark hit the floor in a spray of their own liquid. 

Scope had no reply for that and he didn't dare tell Tripwire that the likelihood of that actually happening was slim considering his owner wanted to be a scientist.

Their apartment was on the third floor and unlike the area around it, Scope kept it spotless. Coming from the sterile factory, cleanliness was one thing he couldn't live without and Tripwire didn't complain. When he'd first arrived at the flat, mounds of rubbish had littered the space. He'd spend four sleepless days cleaning everything until it sparkled. Just the idea of sleeping in dirt made him uncomfortable and jittery.

The apartment was small with only two rooms, the main room was the larger one and had a large table in the middle which doubled as a work desk, around it was a mismatched set of chairs. In far corner away from the door was a soft reading chair with a small side-table and floor lamp to the left. The shelves of datapads and science equipment made the room feel a lot smaller than it was. It wasn't a tiny space, but it was certainly too small to contain the library of datapads stored on almost all the available spaces. 

Tripwire immediately headed to the storage area at the back of the room and unlocked it, grabbing himself a cube of energon. He fell into his reading chair with a sigh of relief to finally be off his feet and grabbed the holopad on the side table. “You can refuel when I'm not here to see it, I find it repulsive.”

Scope nodded slightly, /yes, master./ He needed the energon now, but he knew not to ask. He'd already shut down his battle computer, targeting systems and firing systems in an effort to conserve what was left, but the low fuel warnings kept flashing with more urgency each time he shut them off. 

One by one, Scope slid the door locks into place, each click bringing him an increased sense of relief. Home was safe and the shooter from the main street was locked outside. When the last lock clicked into place, Scope checked them again just for his own peace of mind. 

The apartment wasn't much of a sanctuary, but it was secure, with the door solidly locked, the only entry point was a small window that overlooked a dark back alley with an illegal gaming den. Scope slept under the window, that way he knew nothing would be able to get to his owner without him knowing about it. Light pooled on the floor through the cracked glass, originating from the building opposite, when the lights in the apartment were off it was Scope's favourite place to sit with one of the many datapads and look at the pictures. The words were meaningless, but he enjoyed the story he could make up through pictures and diagrams, even if all the datapads were scientific.

Other times, the alley was a great source of entertainment, watching mechs get themselves forcibly dragged out of the gambling den, screaming and shouting about unfair it was. Sometimes they threw punches and the bouncers would pile on the mech. Scope enjoyed it and watched with a perverse pleasure. He shouldn't enjoy it, he knew that. He hated violence, even though his frame suggested otherwise. Seeing mechs pick fights they would obviously lose, was funny in its stupidity. 

There was also a cathartic therapy in watching mechs getting themselves slagged. He was so angry about so many things, things he could never voice to anyone simply because no one would understand him talk. While he loved his owner – by programming and forced bond only – Scope still held the flier in contempt. Loving and hating the same mech was a feeling he was certain most disposable's understood. Love your owner while wishing they would drop dead of spark attack. 

Outside, Scope could hear the distant sound of sirens, Enforcers probably on their way to the shooting. Scope walked back to the door and triple checked the locks. Then unlocked them all just to bolt them again so there was absolutely no doubt in his mind that no one could enter. 

Certain for now that they were safe, he stepped away and turned, looking to his owner for orders. Tripwire pointedly ignored him, but that wasn't unusual, they rarely talked unless it was Tripwire laying down some orders or new rules. Tripwire was relaxed, watching the news feed on his hand held holo viewer, the energon cube dangling almost forgotten from his fingers. Occasionally the slender, sharp edged mech tutted to himself, shaking his head as he heard something particularly distasteful had happened. 

Scope shifted uneasily at the door, his feet scraping the floor and breaking the silence. He wanted orders but asking for them was unthinkable. 

Cold, red optics rose to meet Scope's opticless sockets, “what are you doing? Don't stare at me, go and make yourself useful. I didn't pay all those credits for a statue.” 

Scope pulled back quickly, dropping his gaze to the floor, /yes sir, sorry sir./ Feet barely touching the floor as he ran the few steps, the young rifle slipped into the second room, away from his owner before things became violent. 

The second room was slightly smaller than the main one and served as Tripwire's berth room. There was a bed in the far corner with a small table next to it, a desk on the wall by the door and shelves and shelves stacked with datapads and personal items. Scope got to cleaning it, forcing his tired frame to comply. 

The berthroom was always a mess when Scope entered, datapads strewn around, blankets on the floor, empty energon cubes and discarded experiments. If Tripwire knew how to tidy up, he never did. Either he never saw the mess around him or he expected Scope to clear up after him. It was most likely the latter.

If Scope was honest, he didn't mind clearing up, he was a stickler for cleanliness and Tripwire would never clean to a high enough standard for his liking. He'd spend his time wishing that he could redo it better. With the mines so close, there was always a layer of fine crystal dust everywhere and Scope had no doubts that Tripwire would only dust it down when it got bad enough to start clogging their vents. 

Stacks of datapads were quickly put back on the shelves, rearranged to look neat. There was no system to the filing, Scope couldn't read the glyphs of Neocybex and Tripwire could never keep anything in order. As long as it was tidy, Scope didn't care how long it took Tripwire to find what he was looking for. Quite simply, it was like his own little rebellion, his way of making Tripwire's life just a tiny bit harder. 

An hour later and the room was spotless, the bed made, extra blankets folded and stored in the under berth drawers. A quick dusting and a sweep to remove all the crystal dust and Scope looked proud of himself. The berth looked so comfortable and he looked at it longingly.

Making his way back into the main room, Scope was unsurprised to find Tripwire hadn't moved. Slouched in the chair with his head lolling to one side he slept, his vents hissing slightly in the otherwise quiet room. 

/Sir?/ No reply. Did he wake Tripwire or leave him there? The mech would be more comfortable in his berth but Tripwire was already in a bad enough mood, would waking him make that worse or better? Scope shuffled closer, his feet barely making a sound as he stealthily moved towards Tripwire's chair. /Sir?/ A little louder this time but still no reply. Reaching out, Scope shook his owner's shoulder gently, /sir?/

His servo had barely touched the warm metal before Tripwire had lashed out at the invader to his space. He moved with lightning speed, responding to the shock of being woken with his usual 'violence first, questions later' attitude. He sent stacks of datapads and an energon cube clattering to the floor and knocked over a chair as he spun and grabbed Scope. The attack was so fast and so unexpected that Scope's advanced warning system barely had time to register what was happening. He yelped and then grunted as his back hit the wall, a hiss of pain escaping his vents. A strong hand gripped him around his throat and pinned him to the wall. As the grip tightened, Scope could see the pleasure in his owner's optics. Tripwire purposefully pinched Scope's fuel lines and squeezed harder than was necessary to pin the much smaller mech, forcing his head back until his gears made a grinding sound of protect. Desperate fingers scratched at Tripwire's arm as Scope tried to break out of the grip, but Tripwire was far stronger and loomed over the rifle. 

“Did I give you permission to touch me?” Tripwire growled, EM field flared wide and radiating anger, “didn't I warn you never to wake me?” 

Scope shook his head quickly which pulled the cables in his neck at a painful angle. He had never been told that or he never would have done it in the first place. 

“Answer me, disposable. Did I give you permission?”

Scope shook his head again and tried to answer, but the restrictive grip around his throat kept him from forming anything other than static. Panic filled him as he was lifted up the wall, the barrel of his rifle mode hitting the ceiling. Again he tried to apologise but like before, he managed only static. His feet kicked out desperately as he looked for purchase on anything that could hold his weight and take the pressure from his neck. There was only air. 

Tripwire lifted Scope to eye level, his face twisted into a mask of anger and hate, “if you ever touch me without permission again I will lock you in the storage area, but this time I will leave you there. Are we clear?”

Scope's spark raced and he nodded quickly. Memories of the last time he was kept in the dark cramped space flooded his processor. To fit, he needed to sit with his knees tight to his chest and after a few breems, the position really started to hurt. Not to mention the dirt and dark.

Thrown to the floor with enough force to shake the shelving unit, Scope grit his dentals against the pain that flamed through his right side, knowing that if he made a sound it would get much worse for him. Warnings flashed up and went ignored.

Tripwire kicked Scope onto his back and held him down with a foot to the chest. Scope could feel the metal of his chest guard buckle under the weight and this time he couldn't stop the cry of pain that broke from his vocaliser. /I'm sorr-/

“Shut up, throw-away,” Tripwire growled dangerously, twisting his foot to pull another cry of pain from Scope, “I'm in no mood for your faked apologies. You can go without energon tonight as punishment. Now get up and clean this mess up.” 

Scope hissed in pain as Tripwire stomped on his chest before pulling away. /Yes, sir,/ he replied meekly. He didn't move again until the door to Tripwire's room slammed shut, the noise cutting through the silence as cruelly as a scalpel on a protoform. 

A broken sound left Scope's vocaliser as he pushed himself up slowly, one hand gently holding his neck, the other pulled tight to his chest to protect his spark. Assessing the damage was quick, mostly minor and cosmetic damage; scraped paint, twisted cables and denting that wouldn't hinder his transformation too much. It was nothing his self repair couldn't fix with time, but not without fuel and Scope was barely running on what was left in his system. His right ankle had taken the brunt of his weight as he fell and had twisted awkwardly under him as he'd landed. The pain in his leg as he moved was unbearable. Using the wall to support himself, he climbed up, barely managing to put any weight on the joint. It was going to be a big problem, keeping up with Tripwire was hard at the best of times.

With his newly acquired limp and sore frame, cleaning took twice as long as it should have. He righted the datapads and stacked them neat on the table how Tripwire liked them, then collected the discarded energon cubes and poured them all into one cube so they'd be easier to carry to the disposal. 

The need for fuel flashed in his vision as it had been all night. Recharge and fuel, it wasn't too much to ask. Except with an owner like Tripwire it was seen as a treat, not a necessity.

The energon in the disposal cube glistened, caught in the light that spilled in through the window. Still usable energon that would only be thrown away. Surely it was best the energon went to a good cause and Tripwire would never know would he? What the mech didn't know couldn't hurt him.

Scope turned away from the cube and clicked disapprovingly at himself, disgusted that he was even contemplating fuelling himself scraps. Angry at Tripwire, himself and his life, he shoved the cube to the far end of the table and ignored it. 

One dusting, floor wash and trash removal later, Scope was done. It was late and he desperately wanted to curl up and recharge, his ankle still burned and his self repair was eating through what little fuel he had left. 

It was Tripwire's fault he was so low on energon! The day of walking, the panic in the street, the cleaning, the fight. It was always Tripwire's fault, so for once, his owner was going to make it better.

The part-full cube of energon sat on the table, drawing his attention like a bright beacon in the dim room. It was hard to ignore as it glowed faintly, inviting him to take it. 

There was nothing for it, his fuel levels were dangerously low and he wanted the cube, scraps or not. As long as no one would see his shame then he'd live with it. He was a fighter and he was determined to live a long life, even if it meant sinking to new levels. 

His injector was stored on one of the shelves, kept out of his reach so that Tripwire truly controlled when and what his rifle refuelled on. Filled with nervous energy, Scope used his targeting system to monitor Tripwire in the other room. Still deep in recharge. Good.

Wary of his damaged ankle, Scope climbed the chair and stood on the back, stretching out to grab the box, he pulled it close to his chest and slid back to the floor. Grabbing the cube of energon, he hid himself in the corner between the wall and sofa. A noise from the other room startled him, freezing him to the spot but the kliks ticked by without Tripwire appearing and Scope slowly relaxed, chalking the noise up as sleep talking. 

He worked fast to limit the chance he'd be caught, his hands shaking as he poured the energon into the injector's reservoir. The tube from the injector fitted into a port on his side that fed the energon from the injector directly into his fuel tank. The major problem with that was telling the strength of the energon being consumed, the reason disposables couldn't tell they were fuelling on cheap lowgrade. It wasn't until Scope pushed the plunger down and sent the energon into his tank that he realised something was wrong. 

Wrong but absolutely, processor blowing good. 

He fell forward, catching himself on his hands as he lost himself in the pleasure of feelings he'd never known before. The midgrade energon flowed through his fuel lines like rocket fuel, so used to the lowgrade that the drones lived on, Scope found a whole new world of possibilities open up as his frame tried to deal with the excess charge, rooting it to systems that would dispel it the quickest.

Remembering to put the evidence of his rule break away before he rested, Scope cleaned the injector and put it neatly back in the box. Getting the box back on the shelf was more of a problem, his balance was off and his vision swayed. He would have laughed if he wasn't so scared of being caught. His ankle still hurt, but with the energy being redirected to his self repair, he could already feel it fixing itself. 

Evidence cleaned up, he was immensely pleased with himself and retired to his corner of the room under the window to settle down for a recharge. He felt great, as if he could take on the world and win!

He was definitely doing that again. 

\----------

It wasn't often that Tripwire left any energon around, but when he did, Scope claimed it as his own and displayed it proudly on the table so that he could see it while he tidied up. The little bits of energon became a trophy and he'd set himself a challenge to 'win' it, usually it involved cleaning the room within a set amount of time. If he won, he could have the energon. If he lost the challenge, that was ok, he won the energon for trying. Either way the energon was all his.

There was nothing in his life that he looked forward to, so when he could collect enough energon for a hit, it was a rare treat that needed savouring. 

Sometimes he injected it fast, taking the rush with a soft moan of pleasure. Other times – when he was feeling braver – he'd inject slow, drawing the pleasure out until he couldn't take it any more. He liked to experiment, trying out different ways to take the energon, but by far his favourite way was to inject slow, teasing himself, feeling the rush of energy flow through his fuel lines that brought him to a level of euphoria, then as the pleasure crested, Scope would slam the plunger of the injector down, sending a tidal wave into his system. 

It was pure pleasure, not just the injecting but the feel of his systems afterwards. For the first time in his life, he knew real enjoyment and now that he'd tasted it, he wasn't giving it up without a fight.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tripwire finally takes Scope to the shooting range and things turn out better than expected.

Tripwire led Scope across the dark forecourt, ahead of them, surrounded by a dozen similar buildings, was a large well kept warehouse. A large neon sign on the roof advertised the shooting range and glowed bright against the inky night sky. The building itself was a smart, two storey converted warehouse, five times as long as it was wide. It had originally been two warehouses, but the adjoining wall had been removed to make a large enough area for a range. The old building was entirely windowless save for a single line along the ground floor that looked in on a brightly lit reception area. Being a work night, the warehouse and surrounding area was almost deserted, but behind them, Scope heard their transport driving away, then silence except for their footsteps. 

As they got closer to the warehouse muffled rifle fire started to leak from the building, occasionally followed by shouts from the mechs inside. 

Scope literally vibrated in excitement, armour twitching in readiness to transform and start firing, his weapons and firing system hummed loudly, fully booted in anticipation for the night ahead. There was a hyperactive bounce in his step as he trotted alongside Tripwire, but so focused on getting inside, he missed the twitch of a smile that Tripwire tried to hide. 

“Steady on, Scope, you'll wear yourself out before we've even got onto the range.”

Scope baulked, almost tripping over his feet. Not once in his time with Tripwire could he remember his owner ever calling him by name. It was almost disconcerting for Scope who had never seen the nice side of Tripwire. Dealing with angry moods was easy, he just had to placate him and stay out of sight. Happy was new, unexplored and potentially dangerous territory. Tripwire had been in an uncommonly good mood all day and hadn't berated him for anything, even when he'd dropped a stack of datapads. /Sorry Sir,/ he replied, his voice lacked any real sincerity. He wanted to shoot and he wasn't going to apologise for that, it was what he was built to do. Tripwire wasn't angry about it, he was just as eager to get inside, although Scope knew it was more to do with seeing his friends. 

Scope pushed the thoughts aside, Tripwire was in a good mood and he was going to enjoy it while it lasted. For a while they might be able to have a good time in each other's company.

Inside the building they joined the short queue for a mandatory rifle license check. Scope took the opportunity to look around as they waited for the clerk to finish dealing with the other customer. The reception was quiet as he'd seen from outside, but it was much larger than he'd guessed. The size of the room and the roped walkway suggested it could be extremely busy. Several mechs worked behind the counters, all of them painted on the chest with the company logo of three crossed rifles. Two of them spoke quietly to each other as they cleaned the used guns, a third mech on the far end of the room was trying to sell – a little too desperately in Scope's opinion – a pair of expensive blasters to a wealthy looking tower mech and his partner. Long glass counters circled the room, filled with different weaponry, blasters to bows and everything in-between. It was wall to wall weapons and Scope was irrationally annoyed by being just another rifle. Nothing about the building was cheap or run down like Scope had become so accustomed too in the slums, the mopped floors and strong smell of cleaning fluid reminded him of the factory and he felt strangely at home. How many more rifles had his creator watched over? Five, ten? Maybe a hundred. 

Distracted by the thoughts of the Factory and trying to imagine how many brothers he had from his creator, Scope missed when Tripwire took his place at the counter. Three times, Tripwire called for him and it was only the third time that Scope snapped out of his daze and trotted up to the counter. He rose onto his tiptoes to see over the desk, his hands gripping the edge for balance and leverage. It wasn't very interesting, the clerk took his serial number to check he was legally owned and had no outstanding warrants, then checked Tripwire's rifle licence and confirmed they were the correct rifle and owner combination. As the checks ran, Scope lost interest in what was happening, spotting a group of five rifle mechs huddled together against the wall. The store rifles watched Scope with a mix of jealousy and hate. Each of the rifles were painted with a number, although Scope couldn't read what numbers they were. 

Scope waved at the rifles shyly, /Hel-/

The clerk slapped his hand against the counter, cutting Scope off mid word. He smirked as he scared Scope into jumping back in fright. 

Scope's spark raced as he glared at the mech. 

“You dun talk to them, them's mine,” the clerk hissed, speaking through a scarred mouth, only one side moving as he talked, “them dun't like ya anyway, them hate owned mechs.”

The rifles behind the counter weren't owned? Did that make them abandoned or runaways who only worked at the shop because they needed a home? Scope kept the questions to himself, but he was eager to know the answers. He looked nervously between the clerk and Tripwire, gauging how much trouble he was in. To his surprise, Tripwire was glaring the mech down, “I don't think it's wise to scare a mech who could so easily blow your processor over the wall.” A bark of laughter from the clerk and Tripwire's smile was as sharp as a scalpel, “are we done? I have mechs to meet.”

“No, ya gotta read tha rules,” replied the clerk, pointing to a framed poster behind him, “then maybe ya can go...after ya paid for ya lane.” 

Scope tried to read the rules but the glyphs were alien to him. Tripwire barely skimmed them before nodding and tossing some credits on the counter, “fine, they're read. Although I'm sure I have enough common sense not to point my rifle in someone's face and I don't need to be taught how to use him. Why would I own my own rifle if I didn't know how to use it?” 

“Ya be surprised, mechs be doing all kinds a stupid slag. Own a rifle, think it makes 'em invincible. Ah be keeping me optic on ya though, both o'ya. Ya cause any trouble and I kick ya out,” the clerk said sternly, slapping the rifle licence back into Tripwire's hand with a smile that dripped of false niceties, “ya be having a nice night now.” 

Tripwire bit his lip, resisting the urge to say anything about the mech's bad attitude. He had friends to meet and he wasn't going to risk being kicked out before he'd even seen them. Placing a hand on Scope's back, Tripwire pushed him forward and away from the clerk. “Slagging aft head,” he muttered almost silently.

They passed through a set of swinging doors that opened up into a sectioned off area. There was a wide walkway between the wall and the booths and beyond the booths a low wall that stopped mechs from accidentally setting foot on the firing range itself. Tripwire passed all of the firing stalls, of which only a few were occupied. The sound of fire fire echoed around the vacuous space. Scope shivered in anticipation as the smell of burnt targets and explosives curled around him. 

As he walked, he kept looking at the targets, they were nothing like he had expected. The targets looked like mech torsos, but they were attached to a motor that whizzed them around the entire area so anyone could shoot at them. In the area above the firing alley, where the second floor would have originally been, smaller targets flew and dived. Black scorch marks in the ceiling proved there had been many misses for the small jets. 

Tripwire walked them right to the end of the building where a group of three mechs and two rifles had congregated. 

One of the mechs, Sunspot, waved excitedly as he spotted them, “Trip! It's about time, we were beginning to think you weren't coming. Warcry was certain he'd scared you off.”

Tripwire tutted, greeting his group of friends with slaps on the arm and smiles, “Warcry couldn't scare off a scavenging turbohound. He just wished I wouldn't come because he knows I can beat him.”

Warcry laughed and nudged his rifle, “hear that, Bullet, Trip thinks we're scared of him. Reckons that now he has a rifle of his own he's in our league.”

Bullet was like no rifle Scope had ever seen before. Although they were the same model, Bullet looked nothing like him, instead of the dull purple factory paint, Bullet was a glossy black, his inner gears all chromed, in the yellow light of the building, he shone. His frame had been modified with countless upgrades that Scope couldn't even name, but what really drew Scope's attention was the mech's mask, a faceplate and visor that gave Bullet the appearance of a real, miniature mech. Scope felt intimidated and dirty, his dull, chipped factory paint was ugly and he had no fancy looking upgrades or a faceplate. Mechs would never give him a second glance, but Bullet, Bullet was stunning, he'd turn heads no matter where he was. Shifting uneasily, he moved closer to Tripwire. 

Bullet continued to lean on the wall nonchalantly, arms crossed over his chest as he regarded Scope with a bored look, “Warcry, that is an off the rack model, it isn't even modded for soft shot and it's running on basic targeting systems. It'll be terrible at predicting the target's movements and he's a hard shot rifle, he's going to be a lot slower than us.”

“I see you're still as charming as ever, Bullet,” Tripwire frowned, “hasn't your owner beaten any manners into you yet.”

Bullet cocked his head, “don't be stupid, he wouldn't do that to me, he just paid to have me repainted.” 

Warcry placed a servo on his rifle's shoulder, effectively silencing him, “we've only been back from duty for a few cycles, he's still in battlefield mode. Although he never did learn to hold his tongue and he does get a bit mouthy sometimes.”

“A bit mouthy? He gets away with things no normal mech would. It's because you taught him that he can get away with it, you've spoiled him and given him everything he ever asked for. I remember warning you about that,” Tripwire said. 

“It's done now,” Warcry countered with a half shrug, “he's what I need him to be.”

“How many mechs you killed, rack mech?” Bullet growled, ignoring his owner's hand on his chest until the pressure increased to a painful level and he quieted with a growl of displeasure, obviously used to getting his own way all the time.

Scope didn't want to answer that or know what Bullet's answer was. Thankfully for Scope, Sunspot stepped in, “whoa now, this isn't kill count time. We all agreed that there would be no military talk. We're on leave, I don't want to think of death.” He was barely taller than a rifle, but stocky, three times the girth of Scope. His red and gold paint was garish, certainly not the best colours for a battlefield mech. Unless they wanted to be shot. Horrid colours and strange frame aside, Scope found him to be quite endearing in a ugly way. In the same way that a rusty turbofox was cute.

“So Trip, what happened to you getting a datamech to help with your study? How in the pit does a rifle help a scientist?” Sunspot asked, looking Scope over, “nice model though.”

Tripwire smiled, “I don't suppose it helps at all. I was looking for a datamech, but then I heard about a broken rifle the Factory was trying to sell of for cheap. Cheap as rust on a guttermech actually, it was a steal considering his model. I really only wanted a mech for cleaning and doing odd jobs and when I weighed the pros and cons of datastick or rifle, there was no difference. Buying Scope was just cheaper than hiring a mech full time and I get the added benefit of protection in the slums.”

Bullet laughed, “the rack mech is just a glorified cleaner. I bet it couldn't hit a Metrotitan if it was all lit up with neon lights.” 

Scope glared at the mech, but it was hard to convey emotion when he had no face to do it with. Bullet's faceplate and visor was only slightly more emotive, but the venom laced in his tone said more than his faceplate could. 

“You've been around military mechs too long,” scolded Tripwire, “you're underestimating a mech you know nothing about. Worse than that, you're underestimating me and I've beaten you countless times.” 

“Yes, with your old rifle and I'm not underestimating him, he's a rack model with basic systems. I'm a top of the line military rifle with the best upgrades available. Compared to me, yours is a glorified sparklet toy.”

Scope's engine growled softly, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. Frame ridged, he made sure he remembered every detail of Bullet's frame, then one day he'd find him again and show him just how wrong he was. He wasn't a glorified cleaner or a sparklet toy and he was going to prove it, no matter how long it took. 

“Ignore him, Scope.” Sunspot gestured to the other mech and rifle duo, who were watching intently but wisely staying out of the fight, “Bullet's just sour because he lost to Trooper and Trigger. Again. Even with all his upgrades he still can't out shoot a real pro and he hates it.”

“Frag you,” Bullet growled. 

Warcry cuffed his rifle around the helm, “don't push me. Now you're getting too bold.” 

Bullet quieted immediately, but the flash of anger across his visor was hard to miss. 

Now he was getting to bold? Scope could barely believe it, there was no doubt in his mind that Tripwire would offline him for daring to say half of what Bullet was saying. He couldn't keep his optics off of Bullet, maybe it was a military thing? The stress of the job, knowing it was kill or be killed, surely that could break a rifle. Would he ever be half the rifle Bullet was – minus the bad attitude? Probably not, not if he stayed belonging to a scientist who only wanted a cleaner. 

Degraded, intimidated and upset, the night had turned sour quickly and even the prospect of shooting had lost its appeal. Scope wanted to go home, far away from Bullet and his cruel words. 

The two mechs that Sunspot had pointed at were an older pair, painted in matching shades of charcoal grey and black. The mech held a walking cane between his thighs, one of his legs straight out in front of him, the fresh welds over his hip still looked raw. Trigger stood proud beside Trooper, his back-struts straight, arms clasped behind his back. Every bit the perfect rifle.

“It's easy to bully a mech for being 'less' than you are, Bullet, but why would you do it?” The older mech asked, “it's like kicking a guttermech. He's already down, so why make it worse for him?” 

Bullet scoffed, “like I'd want to be friends with a rack mech anyway. If he can't take it then he doesn't have to listen to me.”

Tripwire revved his engine loudly, his annoyance clear, “but I do have to listen to you and you're a vile little rifle. If you were mine then you wouldn't have that attitude, I wouldn't allow it. Keep talking and I'll remind you of your place in the world, regardless of if your owner agrees or not. You are disposable.”

Warcry grabbed Bullet and pulled him back against the wall, stepping between Tripwire and Bullet, “I didn't come here to fight anyone and no one here is teaching Bullet a lesson, I'll deal with him at home. Right now, we came to shoot so lets just do that.” 

Sunspot grinned widely, grabbing at the change in conversation to steer it away from unpleasant topics, “and I came to keep score.”

“Are you sure you can count high enough?” Warcry teased, “I'm aiming for the big scores today.”

“I'm sure he can count to ten,” Trooper grunted as he pushed himself to his feet. 

Trigger was immediately helping his owner, offering himself as a support to Trooper who could barely bend his leg without wincing. It was only when he stood that Scope saw the extent of his injuries, the thick scars of old wounds cut through with metal grafts and newer cuts, unpainted metal replaced an area from knee to hip, and a web of fine cracks surrounded it. Trooper was wary of putting too much weight onto Trigger, balancing himself between his walking stick and his rifle's shoulder. “Thank you, Trigger.” He shifted his weight to his good leg, bad one resting on his toes, “why don't you give the new mech a better welcome than Bullet gave him?” 

Trigger nodded and checked that Trooper was ok before he left the four normal mechs to their own conversational catch up. Although to him, it sounded more like a brutal verbal fight. Scope and Bullet were silent when Trigger joined them, glaring each other down, both too stubborn to break the silence first. 

Standing in front of Scope to get his attention, Trigger offered his hand out. Scope met the new mechs optics, then stared down at the hand, head cocked to the side.

“Are you stupid? You grab it and shake,” Bullet said gruffly, “Primus, you're as dull as your paint.” 

Scope ignored the comment and took the offered hand in his own. What purpose did that serve? 

“My designation is Trigger, it is a pleasure to meet you.”

/Scope,/ he replied, /but you already know that./

“Ah you speak in the old tongue. I admit it has been a long time since I heard that and I don't understand it myself.”

Bullet scoffed, “you heard Tripwire say he was broken. At least he still fires and has some use.”

Trigger hummed softly as he thought, “he's not broken. Broken would imply there is something wrong with him. Speaking in the Primal Vernacular is hardly a disability.”

Except that it was. Perhaps not in a physical way, but being unable to communicate with mechs was a hardship and it was lonely. Tripwire never made for good company and there was no one else who Scope could speak to. Often he want days without saying anything but 'yes sir' and 'sorry sir'. Having a mech around who he could really converse with and learn from was all he really wanted.

“Stupid rack mech, I bet he doesn't even understand us. He just nods when we speak so he looks smarter than he is,” Bullet taunted, pushing off from the wall and walking around Scope menacingly. “Cheap little rifle. Shows that you pay for what you get in life. If you want a /good/ rifle like me then you have to pay a lot.” He poked Scope in the chest and laughed when his hand was slapped away, “Warcry says that he could have brought a nice apartment for how much I've cost him. Hundreds of thousands of credits.” 

Trigger tutted loudly and shook his head, “you're wrong, as so often is the case with you. Scope understands us, don't you?”

Scope nodded emphatically, /yes./

“See, Bullet, as always you have no grasp of the situation and you jump to rash conclusions. You are the perfect example of why expensive upgrades are not a show of quality,” Trigger argued. 

A bark of laughter from Bullet and the three regular mechs turned to see what was happening. “It's fine, it's fine,” Bullet promised, leaning on Scope like they were best friends, “we're just having a little chat is all.”

“Bullet, curb your tongue or you wont be using it for a while,” Warcry frowned, “stop being yourself, just for a while. In fact, just be quiet. No talking at all.”

Bullet clenched his fists and glared at the floor, “yes, Warcry.”

As soon as Warcry was preoccupied with his friends again, Bullet lowered his tone to a whisper, “you're just a cleaner, rack mech. You'll never be a rifle.”

Trigger shoved Bullet off of Scope with enough force to send the mech staggering back, his pleasant voice became harsh, growling his disappointment with his subordinate, “I was unaware that your feelings towards rack mechs were so...unsavoury. I myself am I rack mech or did you forget that? I've never been upgraded, by my choice. You, as a mech who has all the best upgrades credits can buy, still cannot out shoot me. You lose to a rack mech every time we shoot together, don't be so quick to make your decisions based on a flawed notion that upgrades make you the better mech.” His optics met Scope's as he spoke, “there is nothing wrong with being a rack mech, it doesn't make you any less of a rifle because you don't have custom upgrades. Any mech can be good at something if they work hard enough at it, upgrades make it easier, but it is not an impossible task without them. I have none and I have managed all these vorns to keep Trooper online.”

There was a power to Trigger's words that made Bullet shrink back. Maybe it was being berated by the mech he respected or maybe he realised Trigger was right. Either way he offered no apology to Scope who stared at Trigger with admiration. 

“If you believe you are disposable, then why should your owner believe you are not?” Trigger added, patting Scope's shoulder, “give him a reason to see you as something more and the chances are that he will.” 

The old rifle was right and Scope felt a new world of opportunity open up to him. He wouldn't just be good at something, he'd be the best, the most amazing mech he could be and that would make Tripwire happy. Then maybe one day, Tripwire would see him as an equal and not a slave. It was a long way off, but he could dream. 

A breem later and the regular mechs rejoined their rifles. “We're shooting first, Bullet, lets show them how it's done.” Warcry grinned as he walked to the far booth and grabbed Bullet as he transformed, keeping him from hitting the ground. 

Trigger moved back to his place at Trooper's side and Scope watched them out of the corner of his eye. There was something between them that he couldn't put his finger on, the fond, caring looks and the way Trigger stood at his owners side like he wanted to be there more than anywhere else in the universe. It was an unspoken affection that none of the others seemed to have noticed, or if they did then they ignored it. 

The five shots from Bullet were so fast that Scope could barely compute they had happened at all. Earlier in the night he'd been confused as to what Bullet meant by saying he couldn't keep up, but now he understood and it irritated him that Bullet was right. There was no way he was going to be able to shoot that fast.

He took some pleasure from the fact Warcry smacked the back of Bullet's helm as he transformed. Only two of the five shots had hit the target drones and Warcry was less than impressed. For a military rifle to score anything less than perfection looked terrible. Scope was pleased. 

“Only twenty points,” Sunspot tisked, jotting down the score on a hand-held datapad. 

“That's why you don't sacrifice aim for speed. If you have time, use it, why are you racing against no one?” Trooper asked, shaking his head. “I taught you better than that. I'd bet my next paid leave that even Tripwire and his rifle can get a better score than that.”

“You're on,” Warcry growled. 

Scope cocked his head, looking Bullet over, his frame weighed down by the heavy upgrades. If Bullet couldn't hit the target perfectly then what chance did he have when he'd never even tested his firing system worked? Still, just the thought of being better than Bullet was enough to set his determination. 

Trooper picked up Trigger, caressing his barrel with his thumb as he looked down the scope and lined up the shots. Their shots were slower and much more precise, each one perfectly aimed at the target's head. They scored full points and Trigger looked pleased as he set Trigger down gently. 

“Nice shooting,” Tripwire admired, nudging Scope's back to tell him it was their turn. “So, Warcry. we just have to score thirty points and Trooper gets your next paid leave? Easy.” Tripwire grinned, “anything to put you in more debt with your commander. Don't you already owe him an orn of rations?”

“Two orns,” Trooper corrected, “and a wax and polish.” 

“Are you going to shoot tonight or bore me to death?” Warcry asked irritably, ignoring his commander behind him.

Scope stepped up to the booth and looked down the firing lanes. The target drones raced around the floor, their movements seemingly random as they spun and twisted as they moved, giving only brief glances of the vulnerable areas that would score the best marks. There was panic when he felt Tripwire behind him and he looked up nervously before he transformed. 

He needn’t have worried, despite watching the last two mechs fire, he'd forgotten that he wasn't going to have to shoot alone, Tripwire was his handler and the way his owner held him made him feel like they could actually do it. Tripwire knew what he was doing. 

Scope felt the rough grip on his barrel as Tripwire hoisted him into position on the rest and moved in close to line up the shots. Cutting out the other noises of the firing range so he could concentrate, Scope tried to focus, following each of the drones to guess as which one was coming close. The amount of information he was processing made his processor hurt. Too much, too fast. There was no time to decipher the data before it had changed again. An ever changing list of numbers that made him dizzy. He passed the information through the bond like he was supposed to and he felt Tripwire stiffen, the grip tightening for a second.

“Slow and steady,” Tripwire said softly, so the others wouldn't hear, “be sure of the information you send me, stop guessing. Most of what you are sending me is pointless, you have the targeting system, it's your job to give me only the facts.” 

“You going to take the shot or what?” Warcry shouted behind them. Scope could practically hear the mech's frown.

Scope reset his targeting system as he took Tripwire's advice. Speed, angle, clear shots, predicted movements, he passed over only the data he was sure of. Once he stopped trying to guess as what would happen and started using only the facts things became much cleared, he was in his element as he fired through the data to knock out the useless parts. Having Tripwire so close, respecting his opinion and being able to do what he was programmed to do was invigorating and he embraced it like a starved mech to energon. 

The first shot went wide, ricocheting off the wall and leaving a long, charred burn mark. Bullet laughed, “fragging rack mechs.” 

The second shot was closer but still misjudged.

Scope fretted, but Tripwire didn't seem fazed. Before the next shot was fired, Scope adjusted his targeting system, fine-tuning it to ignore some data and treat other data as priority. He'd never had a chance to properly calibrate his firing systems before and ideally he wanted a few more practice shots before he tried to win the bet for Trooper. 

He couldn't miss the next three. He wouldn't. Determination set itself in his spark. To prove Bullet wrong about him, he was going to get a perfect score with his remaining shots. 

The finger on his trigger tightened in readiness. Having done all he could, Scope followed one drone instead of all of them, finding the pattern in which it moved. Two turns to the left, one to the right, following the wall up towards the booth. 

Transmitting the data, Tripwire waited, grip sure as he followed the drone through the scope. 

Scope fired on Tripwire's command and the shot burned down his barrel pleasurably, bursting from the end in a spray of fire. A loud beep from the drone and Scope knew it was a good hit. He wasn't as fast as the other two rifles, but he'd still managed a kill shot. 

The next shot was also a perfect hit. The third a minor hit on the drone's arm. Still, had three hits and he had beaten Bullet! 

His form vibrated in Tripwire's hands, excitement and happiness that fuelled his good mood. “Don't get cocky,” Tripwire warned him, setting him on the counter, “you'll end up like Bullet and start thinking you're invincible and perfect.”

Bullet scoffed, “I don't think it, I know it.”

“And that's why we lost to an off-the-rack mech,” Warcry said flatly, “Primus, Bullet, you lost to a mech who hasn't even been shooting before.”

Feeling like he was on top of the world, Scope transformed and jumped down from the counter so Bullet and Warcry could take up their place again. 

“I guess no one told you that Tripwire is a really good shot?” Trigger asked, “didn't you know he was on the shooting team once?” 

Scope shook his head, an hour ago and he wouldn't have believed Tripwire could do anything but shout and moan, but after feeling how knowledgeably he'd been wielded, he could see Tripwire as part of a team that rarely lost and the new revelation made him happy. 

The rest of the night went smoothly and the shooting continued until management kicked them out at closing time. Trooper and Trigger had won, much to the disgust of Bullet who got more and more angry as he fell further and further behind. Unlike Bullet, Scope took Trigger's advice, Tripwire's too if he was giving it. Scope listened and learnt, getting better and faster as the night wore on. With every piece of advice he used, he felt more and more superior to Bullet who waved the advice off as if he knew better. 

Being around Trigger and Trooper was what Scope had enjoyed most, even more so than the fighting - there was a calming and wise air to them both. They were gentle and knowledgeable, standing up for him when Bullet, Warcry and more than once, Tripwire, said something they didn't agree with. 

By the end of the night, as he watched them walk away, he felt intense longing to be going with them. Trigger had taught him more in a few hours than he'd learnt in his whole life – although it wasn't a long life so far – and he craved the new knowledge, wanting more, not just about shooting, but everything.

Getting back home from the range was a long journey with three transport changes and a long walk into the slums. Scope was worn out, sore and filled with happiness when they finally arrived back at the apartment. Tripwire hadn't said anything to him for the entire journey home, but Scope knew his owner was pleased, the ride home would have been terrible otherwise. Even if they had come last out of the three shooters – which Tripwire had probably expected given their experience - their score had been more than just respectful and was certainly nothing to be angry about. They had held their own against military mechs and that was something even Tripwire could smile about. 

“Don't start cleaning tonight, get some recharge,” Tripwire said, not bothering to look at Scope who was doing his usual triple check of the door locks. 

/Sir?/ Scope asked, turning to face his owner. Not clean? Tripwire was very happy with his performance then.

“You heard me,” Tripwire replied, grabbing a cube of energon from the storage box and drinking it down in one long chug. He set a cube of low grade on the table and grabbed the injector, setting it beside the cube. “We should do that again,” he said, stretching his arms over his head with a moan, “you'd like that, right?”

/Yes, sir!/ Scope replied excitedly, /I would like it a lot./

Tripwire nodded and threw his empty cube in the disposal, “next time they're in town, I'll ask if they want a rematch.”

/Thank you, sir!/

There was something in Tripwire's optics that he didn't recognise. Fondness? No. Not quite, but there was less disgust than usual. 

“You didn't do bad for your first time out. Now get some recharge,” the tall mech ordered as closed his berth room door behind him and flopped into his berth. 

Scope stood frozen, replaying the moment in his head. He'd done well, Tripwire was actually pleased with him! There was hope for a more equal relationship yet. 

Fuelling quickly, Scope cleaned the injector and shoved it back in its box, switching the lamp light off as he passed by to his spot under the window. He grabbed a blanket and smiled inwardly as he curled up. Things were finally starting to look up for him. 

His last thoughts before he drifted off into recharge was a prayer that he'd see Trigger and Trooper again.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been really sick lately and so this took far longer than I had planned. I just couldn't get it to work how I wanted it to. I hope it makes as much sense as I think it makes.
> 
> Warnings for abuse (verbal)

The sound of drumming fingers were bullets through the silence, each tap of metal on metal another shot to the audials, the never-ending song of a stressed mech. Occasionally the drumming was punctuated by slow grind of dentals, the low vented whistle of a sigh or the beep of the console to announce the message was still unopened and getting more urgent. 

Tripwire oozed tension and it dominated the room in an uncomfortable, unbreakable layer. The jet sat at his desk, frame ridged, every cable pulled taut, wings - usually held in a more relaxed, lower position - flared out aggressively to form a barrier between his console and the rest of the world. He was unapproachable, inconsolable and made for an intimidating figure. More so than usual. Beside him sat an untouched energon cube, now warm from being left out all night, forgotten in favour of the unopened message that flashed continuously. 

Scope was afraid to move, frightened that his sound of shuffling would invoke the wrath of his owner. In all the time they had been together, Scope had never seen Tripwire so agitated and stressed out over anything, much less a message that hadn't even been opened. The little rifle wished he'd open it, just so it would put an end to the evening. 

It was late and on a normal night Tripwire would have left for recharge hours ago, leaving Scope to enjoy his quiet time alone without worry. Having his owner invade his private time angered him, he wanted to unwind and instead Tripwire was winding him up with ceaseless noises and room domination. He had tried to recharge twice but it was a futile task, all he could do was glare out of the window and clench his fists in his lap as he prayed it would end soon. 

For a while it had been fascinating, anything that could make Tripwire lose his composure and turn him into a nervous wreck was bound to be interesting. After the first hour, interesting had become tiresome. After the third hour, tiresome had turned to hate. 

Out of the corner of his optics Scope saw Tripwire twitch and start tapping his foot, which in turn made the chair creek. It was fair to say that he'd become somewhat of an expert when it came to deciphering Tripwire's usual body language and it enabled him the upper hand of being able to predict when mood-swings were coming and adjust his demeanour accordingly. For the most part Tripwire was predictable and easy to read, so when he shoved away from the desk so violently that the wheeled chair shot across the room, Scope jumped in to air and fell back against the wall. 

Tripwire never heard Scope's cry of surprise over his own angry growl and revving engine. Grabbing the cube of high-grade, the lithe flier downed it for courage and tossed the cube towards the door. Venting deeply, he opened the message, leaning over the desk as he read. Outwardly he made no move to show if it had been good or bad news, choosing instead to grab another cube of energon, turn off the console and walk into his room. "Clean up before you recharge," he said over his shoulder as the door slammed shut. 

Scope was venting heavily as his spark hammered in his chest. The unexpected explosion made him incredibly wary and put him in the dangerous position of not knowing how to act around Tripwire so he wouldn't anger him further. It seemed to him that everything would anger his already volatile owner further.

When the panic subsided and his frame stopped shaking, Scope felt something new and strange over the bond. An emotion that he didn't understand. It made his tank churn and his spark flutter, filling him with a nervous, scared energy. He didn't like it. To him it felt as if the world was about to attack and he couldn't stop it happening.

He cleaned with minimal effort and told himself that he'd do a better job when he wasn't about to slip into recharge on his feet. As he pushed the chair back to its place by the desk, he passed Tripwire's door and something inside caught his audials and made him stop to listen. Laughing? Crying? Both? He couldn't quite make it out, but there was some kind of sobbing or laughing. Slamming the chair under the desk, he crossed the room as fast as lightning and curled up in the safety of his corner. 

As worried as he was over Tripwire, recharge came easily. The poor mech had no idea how much he was going to need it. It would be his last good night of recharge for a long, long time. 

\------------------------------

Over the coming days, Tripwire's mood was quiet and withdrawn. He spent most of his time in his room having conversations over the terminal that were too quiet for Scope of hear. When they did go outside, Scope was on his best behaviour and at night he'd sit quietly in his corner and not make a sound. For him, life was miserable, but Tripwire didn't seem to be much better. Tripwire rarely acknowledged his rifle, even when they were together, and that left Scope alone in the living room for long stretches at a time. It was pure boredom to a mech who needed stimulation. 

While they were out it was fine, they raced around collecting parts and supplies, meeting with mechs in busy buildings - although they spoke in a private room and Scope was always left outside. It was exciting, a break in the monotony of the young mech's day. It gave Scope a chance to exercise his processor, running his targeting systems at full capacity as he looked for dangers he had learnt weren't there. Although it was safe, the full run on his systems gave him a chance to hone his skills, picking out areas that could be dangerous at night when the less law abiding citizens were out. 

The nights were much quieter, Tripwire spent them at his desk, surrounded by scale models, datapads, holographic simulations and delicate equipment that Scope was forbidden to touch. When Tripwire was out of the room, Scope would inspect the instruments, never touching, but always learning. It all looked fascinating and he wished he knew exactly what each piece was called and what function it had. He had a good feeling that his assumptions were all incorrect.

As the days passed, Tripwire's actions became more urgent and his temper rested on the edge of a laser scalpel. It became harder and harder to ignore and far easier to predict the upcoming explosion. He was quiet and withdrawn, completely focused on the experiment on his desk. He didn't recharge, forgot to refuel until Scope handed a cube and even then if often sat half empty on the edge of the desk. The erratic mood swings from nervous to stressed filtered down the bond and as a result, Scope was getting more anxious and upset. Resting was almost impossible with his spark so fluttery and he couldn't remember the last night where he'd had a full recharge. To his sleep deprived and stressed mind, every little noise or shout from the street suddenly became a lift threatening situation that made his spark clench. 

Release came unexpectedly when Tripwire declared they were going out and practically shoved Scope out of the door. It was late and the streets were quiet, Scope followed Tripwire silently, their footsteps the only noise in the empty streets. He had no idea where they were going and he didn't have the courage to ask, so when they jumped on a transport, he had to admit he was excited. 

Even more so when he spotted the familiar sign of the shooting range glowing brightly against the dark sky. Hope flooded him, perhaps they were meeting Trigger and Trooper again? That would make the past few weeks worth it. Trigger had become his idol, the perfect rifle that all others should aspire to be. If he could be a fraction as wonderful as he imagined Trigger to be, then Scope would be a happy rifle. Trigger would find amusement in being elevated to some god-like figure with a worshipper, but Scope took his teachings of kindness very seriously. 

Delighted with Tripwire's choice of stress relief, Scope ran ahead, opening the heavy swinging door for his owner. By the counter, he bounced on his toes, ignoring the looks from the shop rifles. Nothing was going to break his good mood, not even the glares of ownerless mechs.

As soon as they were on the shooting range, he ran ahead, correctly predicting that Tripwire wanted the privacy of the furthest booth. There was a little disappointment when he realised they were alone, but not enough to take away from the pure pleasure that came from transforming into Tripwire's waiting hold. 

Tripwire was none too gentle with his rifle, but Scope never complained - even though he would be nursing a sore frame for a while. His owner was rough, handling him with a metal denting grip and heavy trigger finger. He pulled Scope around like he weighed nothing and banged him down on the counter heavily. There was little care for anything other than breaking his own souring mood, but blasting at the targets seemed to have a cathartic affect and after a few minutes of pointless violence, he relaxed, loosening his grip and caressing the rifle's barrel. That was all Scope needed and he found himself more at ease in his owner's company. A happy change to the discomfort he'd felt lately. 

Scope was a fast learner and remembered what he'd learnt last time they were here, improving on it with every shot. They were a good team and worked well together, the one place they were truly equal in power and the one place that Scope could show off just a little and maybe impress his owner in the process.

The targets raced around at a slower pace than they had the last time. Easier for practising and tracking across the room. It made for a more leisurely pace and they easily beat their high score. 

The night didn't last long enough for Scope who was still raring to go when the manager came to tell them their time was up. His circuits buzzed with a pleasant charge that tingled across his plating, leaving him craving the touch of his master, but Tripwire never touched him again, much to his disappointment. 

Off the range, Tripwire took control again, leaving no room for arguing.

As soon as they arrived back at the apartment, Tripwire grabbed a cube for himself and dropped a cube of lowgrade onto the table for Scope. It was a better grade than he was used to, a step up from disposable graded energon and that in itself was a special treat. 

Scope wanted to believe it was Tripwire's way of apologising. Even if it wasn't true, it was still a nice thought and until that was proved otherwise he wanted to believe he was right and Tripwire was sorry for being an aft. 

"Drink and recharge, you'll need all your energy tomorrow, it's a very busy day."

/Yes, Sir,/ Scope replied, rocking on his heels as tried to fidget away from the pleasure coursing through his frame. There was nothing he wanted more than for Tripwire to hold him again and stroke him all over. Just the thought of that sent a shudder through his thin form. 

Tripwire cocked an optic ridge at him, but said nothing and let the door slide shut behind his back. 

Alone in the front room, Scope hastily checked the door locks, turned off the main lights and took the cube to his corner. The charge had built from the range and he wanted to do something about it.

Running his hands across his frame brought some relief, but it also left him frustrated, it was Tripwire he craved, not his own touch. His frame moved on its own, arching into his touch as he scratched his fingers over his abdomen and groin plating where the heat pooled. Pleasure coursed though him, building up to a peak that he couldn't pass. Hands roamed his body more urgently, dipping under his plating and reaching up to stroke his barrel where Tripwire had held him not an hour before.

Writhing on the floor, twisting to bring pleasurable friction to his harder to reach areas, Scope almost sobbed in frustration.

It was agony, sweet agony that left him frustrated and furious. There was something just out of reach that his frame desperately wanted and yet he had no idea how to achieve it. He longed for his master to come back and touch him, he could still feel those strong hands around his frame, the gentle caress on his barrel as Tripwire moved him into position. 

Frame shaking and arching, Scope muted his vocaliser before he made the mistake of shouting for Tripwire and begging him to fix whatever problem he was having. It was something only Tripwire could help with, he knew that, but it didn't stop him trying to achieve the explosion of energy that made his frame scream for more. 

His frame was hot and made soft tinking noises in the quiet room as he willed himself to cool down. On his back, clawing at the floor, Scope tried to will the feelings away. Thinking of bad things, getting shouted at, being ignored, the violent outbursts of a mech who didn't care about him.

It took time but eventually he was running more normal, the frustration was still there but it would pass. Grabbing the injector, he plugged it into his fuel tank with shaky hands and injected the energon quickly. The rush of fresh, cool energon brought pleasure, but the kind he could enjoy, it coursed though his systems and brought the feeling of light-headedness that he so enjoyed when he took Tripwire's dregs for himself.

Sated but still wishing for the release only Tripwire could give him, Scope curled up under his blanket and tried to recharge.

\------------------

“We're moving,” Tripwire said one evening, his voice startling Scope who had been absorbed by the silence for hours.

/We are, Sir?/ He asked, turning away from the window where he'd been watching how many mechs entered and left the gaming den. He had two of the mechs pegged as undercover officers and he'd been right, a few kliks later and they were being kicked out and beaten up by the staff. He was almost annoyed that Tripwire had interrupted the best part and he'd never know who won the brawl. He was betting on the enforcers anyway.

Tripwire nodded, “yes. Into the city. I've been accepted into the Academy and we're moving onto the campus in a few cycles.” Ideally they would have moved in already, but finding accommodation willing to accept a rifle had taken much longer than he had imagined. He'd had to pay extra to take him and had been given a list of rules and requirements that Scope would have to comply with before he would be given a pass to be on campus. It would cost even more to get Scope to meet those requirements, even the cheapest medics were expensive. He'd debated just dropping Scope off at the nearest recycling centre and cutting his losses, but it seemed like such a waste when he'd already sank so many credits into him. No, he'd just have to find a way to make Scope worth taking, even if it was just renting him out as a cleaner or errand runner. There would be some way to make credits off him, it was about time Scope earned his keep. 

Scope stood and took a few tentative steps towards his owner. He was unsure how to take the news, he was happy of course, he wanted what was best for his owner, but there was trepidation and worry that burned at his spark. Campuses were busy, filled with mechs making bad decisions, he'd seen the news reports of campus fights and mechs so overcharged that they couldn't remember their names. It was horrific to watch and now he'd have to live it. 

“Don't you have anything to say?”

Did he? He shifted nervously and looked at his owner. Would he be one of the mechs constantly in trouble with the enforcers? So drunk that he thought he was invincible? How often would he need to protect Tripwire?

Tripwire frowned and drummed his fingers on the desk, “it's common courtesy to congratulate a mech when they achieve something.” 

The rifle forcibly relaxed his frame, trying to look more at ease for his owner, /of course, sir. Congratulations, you are very smart and you work very hard. No one deserves it as much as you do./

Tripwire nodded and turned back to his work, seemingly placated by that. “I'm going out tomorrow and while I'm gone, I want you to start packing up the datapads. I've left a stack on my desk that I don't want you to touch, but the rest all need to be boxed so we can take them to storage.”

Scope looked up sharply, /out by yourself, Sir? Into the city?/ The news only ever seemed to report murders, muggings and violent attacks on mechs. Tripwire needed him there more than anywhere. 

“Of course by myself,” Tripwire replied irritably, “didn't you hear me? I said I wanted you to pack up the shelved datapads.”

That wasn't ok. Scope flinched as his coding hit him full force, sending him staggering back a few steps. Protect, serve and obey. Protect, serve and obey. That was the full extent of his core coding, and now he was at war with himself. Did he obey or did he protect? Either way he would be disobeying his code and would spend the time alone sick to the pit of his fuel tank.

If Tripwire had any idea of how cruel his order was, he made no attempt to console Scope or explain. As far as he was concerned, Scope was there to obey and obey he would.

/Please, sir,/ Scope begged, voice quivering and upset, /please don't go out alone./ Not only would he be unable to protect, but with Tripwire so far away and the bond to his owner so faint, there was no way he would be able to do what was being asked of him. He'd spend the whole day worrying about whether his owner was laying dead at the side of the road or bleeding out in some back alley. His processor continuously ran through the worst case scenario. If he let Tripwire go alone he knew the next mech he'd see would be the Enforcers coming to tell him his owner was offline. Then they would take him to be recycled because no one would want a second hand rifle. Especially not one that couldn't speak in an understandable language. 

Scope stood, arms wrapped tightly around his chest as if it would stop his spark falling from his chest. His frame shook visibly and his vents heaved in laboured intakes. 

Tripwire cocked an optic ridge at the smaller mech, “you're actually worried about me.” It wasn't a question and it carried an amused tone.

/Yes, sir. I am. Please, I want to be at your side. I don't want you to go alone./

“Why?”

Why? Scope thought that was fairly obvious. /I am your rifle, Sir and you are my master. It is my duty to protect you and I can't do that if you leave me here alone. I am a good shot now, I can look after you. You said I have a natural talent for pulling off difficult shots. I can do it, Sir, I can be what you need me to be!/

Tripwire allowed a few moments for that to settle in before breaking into a deep laugh, a cold sound in the small room. “You. Protect me? Don't be ridiculous. If someone were to attack me then what use would you be? You are a rifle, a long distance weapon. Do I ask my attackers to walk away so I can have enough distance to shoot them? You are small and far too fragile for an actual fight. If anything, I would be protecting you and the chances are I wouldn't bother.”

Scope stepped back as if he'd been struck. His tank churning. /But Sir,/ he said weakly, /I am your protector. I live to die for you./

Tripwire laughed harder, "yes you do, don't you? If I ordered you to sacrifice yourself for me, you would. Does it make you angry that your existence is mine? That your very spark is mine to control and destroy as I will?"

Scope didn't answer, but his frame stiffened and that was all the answer Tripwire needed. 

“You are my cleaner. My little messenger. You carry things for me and do tasks I don't want to do myself. You are here purely to make my life easier, nothing else. Protecting me," he chuckled, "really now, what a ridiculous thought. I have obviously treated you far too kindly if you believe you are anything other than a way to relieve stress and ease my workload.”

There was nothing Scope could reply to that. In a few words, Tripwire had destroyed his world and shattered his hopes into a thousand pieces. Even knowing how Tripwire truly felt, Scope would still die for him and the thought was sickening. He didn't want to die for Tripwire, he wanted to hate him. Instead, he found himself nodding submissively and stepping away. /I am sorry for presuming, Sir./

Still chuckling, Tripwire pinned Scope with a scrutinising look, “perhaps it was a mistake to introduce you to Trigger, I was warned he might be a bad influence on you. Trooper has always had a soft spot for his rifle, he's allowed Trigger to believe his existence has worth. Stupidity really, but it seems that has rubbed off on you. So let me set this straight, Scope, your existence has as much worth as I allow it to have. I own you and you are my tool, nothing more. You will follow my orders and never question them, even if you hate what I ask. That is your lot in life.”

Talk over, Tripwire stood and shook his head as he packed away the parts of his equipment he no longer needed. “We'll be moving in a few days. There are boxes in the storage area, pack up the shelves first, if you find anything that looks breakable or valuable, wrap it up carefully before you pack it.”

/Yes, sir,/ replied Scope, but he wasn't listening. What was the point? If he could never prove he was worth something then why bother trying to prove he was more than he was?

It pained him, but the worst part was coming to terms with the fact that maybe Trigger had been wrong. Ever since he'd met him, Scope had put the older rifle on a pedestal in his mind, making him out to be some kind of infallible mech. He'd tried to live by Trigger's advice and show Tripwire he was more than a cleaner. Instead he'd just set himself up for more disappointment.

When Scope looked up, breaking himself out of his depressive thoughts, Tripwire was gone and darkness surrounded him.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter contains graphic abuse of the verbal and physical kind as well as mutilation.

Tripwire's words were as sharp as a surgeon's scalpel. Wielded with such hate and disgust that Scope could almost feel his spark shattering into a thousand pieces. Each insult and degrading remark cut deeper than the last, tearing through his dignity and self respect. They stripped him of his hope and strength, sapping away at his emotions to leave a raw, hollow feeling. The resulting wounds were hidden away behind a calm and quiet façade where no one would ever see them, to the outside world he was strong, obedient and loyal, but inside he was rotting. Lying about his emotions had become so easy to Scope, but inside he ached, the words were a physical pain that festered away at his spark like a bad case of rust. 

Tripwire's cruel words hung heavy in the air even after he left, tainting the room. 

_"You are my cleaner. My little messenger. You carry things for me and do tasks I don't want to do myself. You are here purely to make my life easier, nothing else."_

The words repeated themselves over and over in Scope's head. Where had he gone wrong? Every task was given his full attention and completed to a high standard. There was never a time he didn't respect Tripwire or do as he was ordered. Outside the flat, he never, ever put a foot wrong. He was every ounce the perfect, obedient and respectful rifle he was supposed to be. Yet still, Tripwire hated him. There was nothing else he could do to show Tripwire how much he cared about him and wanted his respect. 

If there was a problem it wasn't with him. He was perfect. 

He was nothing to Tripwire and never would be. The realisation was agony.

Scope dropped to the floor, his hands meeting the scratched metal with a loud bang as his spark clenched so tight in its chamber that he could hardly concentrate on anything but the pain. His fans spluttered and whined as they ran at full capacity, dragging cool air deep into his overheated frame. He bit back on a sob as his spark raced faster and his frame ran so hot that he could smell the sharp tang of lubricants and oil almost melting from his joints. The room spun around him, and Scope had to offline his optics before he fainted. Panic and fear tore through his small frame like a fire, his first thought was that he was going to offline and it scared him that he didn't care. 

He should care. He wanted to care.

The table was a good enough place to hide and Scope dragged himself under it, pulling the chairs back into place so he was protected by the wall of legs. Safe from the outside, he curled into a ball and tried to calm down. Imagining a new life for himself. A perfect life where he was happy and Tripwire adored him. 

Soundly recharging in his berth, Tripwire had no idea of the effect his words had had. Not that it would have mattered. Scope was his pet, a loyal companion bound to his will, a step up from a drone, but still a mech of no real worth. From a young age he'd been surrounded by disposables, such was the life of a tower mech with creators who could afford whatever they wanted. Disposables came and went so often that they were never named, instead they were known by their frame number. Tripwire had been upset when the first one offlined, but his creators scolded him and asked if he would be as upset if he broke a tool. 

Instead of being nothing like all the past disposables, Scope wanted to be something. To have mechs know his name and treat him with respect. He wasn't just a tool. 

In his fantasy, Tripwire was kind and gentle, a loving companion who valued him and wanted him to be there. They were a competitive shoot team with countless wins and awards. They were famous and everyone loved and respected them. He imagined them to be like Trooper and Trigger, only with less killing and danger, just two mechs who truly cared for each other. At night when it was cold, Tripwire would lift his blanket and let Scope curl up next to him, wrapping him in a tight embrace where it was safe from the rest of the world. He'd have a real bed and drink real energon, Tripwire would call him by name and everything would be perfect. Together they would show the world that the disposable class was anything but worthless. They were more than tools. 

If he said it enough times then he might just start to believe it.

His spark wanted that, but his processor knew that it was a dream and would never be anything else. Not when his owner only cared about his experiments and his finish. 

If Tripwire gave him a chance, Scope knew he could impress him. His processor worked fast and it made him a quick study, he was resourceful, hard-working and paid a lot of attention to what was around him, his attention to detail was second to none and his perfectionist streak would be useful in many areas. He was willing to spend every waking moment working if it pleased his owner. Not that Tripwire would notice. 

So absorbed in his escapist fantasy, enjoying thoughts of perfect Tripwire to match his own perfection, Scope failed to notice that his frame had cooled and his spark was pulsing more normal. Pleased with the outcome, the thoughts were stored away ready to use again the next time he needed to calm himself. He had no doubt he'd need to calm himself again soon. Tripwire was a difficult mech. 

Imaginary Tripwire would say he was more than disposable and be angry if Scope gave up fighting for what he deserved. It was right, Scope knew it in his spark. Whether real Tripwire would ever agree with imaginary Tripwire didn't matter. It was right, Scope wouldn't give up fighting for his rights, he was a mech, despite what everyone else said. If his spark was ever to have worth beyond credits then he needed to believe it himself before he could convince anyone else. Nothing was ever solved by sitting around doing nothing. He needed to use his head to get ahead of Tripwire's game. Predict his owners moves and counter them with his own strategy. 

With his new resolve, Scope climbed out from under the table and clenched his fists by his sides. They were going to the Academy together and Scope was going to study and make himself useful. He would prove he was worth everything and his spark was worth more than a few measly credits.

The probability of Tripwire ever being his dream mech was slim, but perhaps he could be something close. Scope would settle for being treated with some respect.

Scope glanced over at the clock on the wall. Tripwire was always up when both the little hand and the big hands pointed down, that meant he had half a clock before Tripwire would come looking for him. Half a clock was more than enough time. 

Scope grabbed the packing boxes and opened a few of them out on the floor, carefully filling them with the contents of the shelves. He worked fast and methodical, keeping the datapads in order of how he'd taken them down. Fragile equipment and ornaments were wrapped in layers of protective wrap and placed in their own box, the holes packed with more padding so there was no chance of breakage. 

Time ticked away and half a clock became quarter of a clock. 

He was tired and worn out, desperately low on fuel, but determined to finish before Tripwire woke. He'd convinced himself that If he could finish then Tripwire would take him into the city where he could protect him. The fact that Tripwire believed he'd be useless in a fight was ignored, Scope would still protect him and he'd do a good job of it. To him it was a perfect plan and all it cost was a night of recharge. 

Scope finished with time to spare so stacked the boxes neatly in the far corner and sat down to wait the rest of the time out. When Tripwire came out in the morning - much later than Scope had anticipated - he scanned the room and his optics narrowed. Scope stood and bounced on his toes, unaware of how drastically wrong his plan had been. Proud of his achievement and pleased he'd managed to finish, the excitement radiated from him. 

/I'm finished, Sir,/ Scope said proudly, /I've kept everything in order and wrapped everything breakable. As I took it off the shelf, that's how I packed it, so you'll be able to find what you're looking for in you need anything./

Tripwire's glare was poison, "I told you to do that today while I was out."

/Well, yes, I know, Sir,/ Scope replied, /I packed last night so I can come with you into the city. I want to protect you like I'm supposed to./

"Did I not make myself clear last night? Was I not clear enough when I said you weren't coming?"

/Yes, Sir, but now my work is done so I can come with you./

Tripwire growled, a low, dangerous sound that stopped Scope from saying anything else. "What part of last night's orders didn't you understand?"

Scope flinched but made no move to back down, he had to stand up for himself, /you were very clear last night, sir./

"I was clear?" Tripwire crossed the small room in two long strides and loomed over Scope, his EMF flared out angrily. Scope realised too late his mistake of disobeying orders so soon after angering him. "So when I said you wasn't coming, you took it on yourself to make me take you?"

Scope was quiet, his spark was racing again, pounding in his chest like a jackhammer. 

"I asked you a question, rifle."

/No sir./

"Oh so you didn't take it on yourself to spend the night packing when I told you to do it today while I was out?"

/Well, yes, sir. I just wanted to help./

"I gave you that order for a reason. I am flying into the city and I can't take you, nor do I want to. I am meeting some old friends and the last thing I need is you following me around like a lost turbohound."

/I just wanted to help, sir,/ Scope said weakly. 

Tripwire grabbed Scope's barrel and lifted him from the floor, raising him to eye level. A sharp snapping sound cut the ait and Scope cried out loudly as his arms shot back to grab his barrel. The small metal clips that held his barrel flush to his back were made of thin metal and not strong enough to hold any real weight, they were holding Scope's entire weight and the rifle could feel them close to breaking point. 

Tripwire ignored the pleas to be put down and lifted Scope higher, "if I'd wanted you to come then I would have made it clear. My life does not revolve around you, rather your life around me. So be a good little mech and do as you are told or you're going to convince me that you aren't worth my time and you know what that means."

The threat was clear and Scope stopped fighting immediately, muting his vocaliser against the sharp sting from his hinges. No mech wanted to visit the recycling part and get crushed into a cube ready for smelting down into a new frame. /Yes, Sir. I apologise Sir. I wont do it again I promise!/

"Good. Now transform for me." 

Scope looked up in confusion and for a moment considered asking why. He didn't, Tripwire was already angry and asking a question would just make it worse. He tried to transform but the clips were pulled tight and he couldn't retract them from his barrel. Stressing them further threatened to snap them but Scope still tried, once, twice, three times...

"I'm waiting," growled Tripwire, his tone impatient and angry. 

/Sir. I can't....I can't...You have to put me down, my barrel, I can't tra-/

"I have to do nothing!" Tripwire snarled, "now transform before I lose my patience with you." 

Scope desperately tried again, his transformation cog whirled to life but stopped when again the clips wouldn't retract. 

The rifle's back met the edge of the table with a sickening crack and he choked out in pain, the hit burned through his entire frame and he wasn't aware he was even moving until he was slammed down on top of the table and pinned by a heavy hand. "You don't seem to grasp that you are to do as your told."

A red warning flashed in Scope's vision; fuel tank cracked, fuel line ruptured, dented plating, energon levels dropping. He didn't need the warning, the pain around his lower back and the leaking energon pooling under him told him everything he needed to know. /Sir,/ Scope said warily, vents hitching as he tried to collect his thoughts and work through the sickening agony, /I am damaged./

Tripwire ran his free hand through the warm, pink liquid oozing out over the table, "yes, I can see that. My order still stands. Transform."

Scope didn't want to and for a few kliks debated refusing. His debate was short lived when the hand around his neck tightened, pinching his fuel lines and making his processor spin. He transformed, his pained cry cutting through the air as his ruptured fuel line split and sent a gush of energon dripping out of his frame. His self repair was quick into action and closed the fuel valves, saving what little energon was still in his frame. 

Tripwire picked the transformed rifle up and opened the storage closet, stashing him inside. It was a tight squeeze but he managed to angle Scope to fit, there was no room for transforming and the tip of his barrel was wedged tight into the corner. "If you survive, then I'll see you when I need you."

The door slammed shut and Scope was left with his burning, aching frame and the smell of spilled energon and cleaning products. He wanted to curl up in a ball and cry.

Why had it gone so wrong? Why was being helpful such a bad thing? Why wasn't Tripwire pleased with him?

\------

Scope heard Tripwire come back later that night and he expected his owner to come and let him out, but that never happened. At least Tripwire was safe and that made him feel a little bit better. He'd tried not to think about what would happen if Tripwire hadn't come back, his thoughts had dwindled on that all day and how he would offline never seeing the sky again. Never again would he take his freedom for granted. It was better to be in an open cage than a cramped one. 

Tripwire went about his business as if he'd completely forgotten that anyone else lived with him. That hurt Scope, who never made a sound, despite how desperate he was to be taken out of the closet to he could transform and try and fix himself. Outside, Tripwire moved around, bringing hope to Scope, only to dash it when the lights clicked off and the door to his room closed. 

It went on for a long time, Scope wasn't sure how many clocks had passed, but it felt like a lot. Finally it reached a point where Scope was willing to do anything to get out, there was nothing he wouldn't agree too if it meant freedom, he'd even happily fall back into submission and give up on everything else except his inevitable life of servitude. 

Maybe in his next life he'd come back as a tank. Something big and scary that mechs would be afraid of upsetting. The thought was pleasing. He'd hunt Tripwire down and make a pet out of him. Teach him how much it hurt when his owner abandoned him and forced him to obey. Show him what being powerless and worthless really felt like. Not like the slum mechs who still existed as mechs with rights, to be truly worthless and have no one care, to be used and abused, treated like slag.

Alternatively he could just destroy him. Without the slave code to protect him, Tripwire was a fair target. 

Destroying him was a nice thought but one he'd never go through with. Despite his frame type, Scope wasn't a violent mech. He wasn't a pacifist and knew that sometimes violence was needed, but he couldn't actually hurt a mech himself. He dreaded the day he'd actually have to shoot someone, but the good thing about being with Tripwire was that shooting a mech would probably never happen. Who would want to shoot a scientist? The question made him chuckle silently. Tripwire had a face that deserved a punch and plenty of mechs would take offence at his attitude. 

\---

Scope woke to someone shouting his name and slapping the butt of his rifle mode. The shrill, impatient screech of his master grated on his audials, "transform right now you little glitch, I know you're still online."

Scope wanted too, desperately wanted to swap forms and stretch out the ache, but he was too weak and could barely even stop himself slipping back into stasis. The jab of the injector into his damaged fuel tank jolted him online, Tripwire's touch wasn't soft and the area was incredibly tender and sore. The rush of energon, good energon, was bliss to his frame. His systems rebooted one by one, major systems first followed by the minor once the majors were running smoothly.

"Now get your aft moving, we're going to be late and this appointment was hard to get." 

Scope let the energon work through his frame before he even considered transforming.Transforming itself was a slow and painful affair, the gunformer was more than a little wary of damaging more systems and did everything carefully. Warning still flashed in his optics and went ignored, there were more this time but they didn't need to be voiced, Scope could feel the damage in every nanometer of his frame. 

"Get your aft moving." 

Scope slipped off the table gingerly, grabbing at a chair for support as his legs buckled under him. Dried energon had all but glued his internals together and even with the fresh energon his frame wasn't fully functional. Venting was painful and every movement sent a jolt of pain through his cracked fuel tank. 

As Tripwire grabbed the last few things he needed and made a quick sweep of the apartment, Scope looked around. The room was empty, the boxes removed, final parts of the experiments gone. Seeing the space empty made it feel bigger and more airy, but so impersonal. It was a strange feeling to see his home so bare and cold. 

"Lets go," Tripwire hissed, shoving Scope out of the door and sending him staggering down the stairs. It was the last time they would ever see the apartment. 

Outside was busier than usual, it was just after shift change and the streets were full of mechs rushing to get home. Music poured out from the bars, all packed with miners and factory workers. Everything was so vibrant and alive, the atmosphere electric and happy. Scope felt dead and hollow. The crowds moved fast, which meant Tripwire wanted to go faster. The jet set a relentless pace Scope couldn't possibly keep up with, his damaged and sore frame made moving hard, every step was a new agony. He was trying his best but being shorter than every mech around him put him at the terrible disadvantage of being practically invisible to the huge, heavy set mechs around him. 

As much as he tried to ignore the pain, it was becoming very hard as mechs knocked into him. Tripwire grabbed his arm and dragged him forward, weaving them between the crowds. Mechs in their alt modes whizzed past them on the road, one skidding to a stop to avoid hitting Scope when a large mech knocked into him and sent him staggering into the road. Tripwire dragged him back onto the walking area and growled at him. 

Scope panicked, his frame shaking. It was too much, the noise, the pain, the mechs overloading his battle systems. Every knock was another jolt of agony for his battered frame and Tripwire's grip on his forearm was merciless. The world spun and Scope stumbled to his knees, dragged on like a limp drone. 

Fresh energon dripped down his legs and left a trail of footprints and smears behind him. 

Tripwire didn't stop dragging the poor little mech and Scope struggled to get back on his feet. Too weak to keep fighting, Scope had little choice but to be half dragged through the busy streets. It was only when Tripwire stopped at the busy crossing that Scope could make an effort to get up. 

A large pair of black hands lifted him onto his feet and held him steady as he swayed and staggered. He was a mess, covered in dry and fresh energon, dirt and sporting bare patching of metal where the paint had been scraped from his frame as he was dragged. He felt terrible and dirty, his plating crawled and he needed to get clean. He looked up at the kind mech still holding him up and nodded slightly in thanks. 

The grey mech stepped back and smiled softly. "Hang on there, things will get better." 

Scope wanted to reply and ask how the miner knew that, but Tripwire started walked and he was pulled along. The rest of the walk was uneventful, Scope blocked out the pain from his frame and tried to ignore the fact he'd been dragged along the filthy ground. Purple paint had been grazed from his frame on his left leg, leaving a long silver stretch of base metal that itched as it came into contact with the air. 

Their appointment turned out to be a medical one, not in the nicest of buildings but Scope was just glad to be getting fixed so everything would stop hurting. 

Although once they stepped through the battered door into the building, Scope decided he'd rather stay broken than risk touching anything. The waiting room was a long thin hallway, flanked down one side by row of mismatched chairs. Dried energon stained the floor and chairs, some old, some new, vorns of energon in varying colours of age. The walls were painted a putrid shade of green, it may have been a nice colour once, but now covered in a thick layer of dirt and pollution it was a headache inducing nightmare that cracked and flaked from the wall, peeling away in large chunks to reveal a wet and rusty wall. Rust also surrounded the window and a thick crystal growth thrived there, growing up the wall. It was the healthiest looking thing in the building - including the mechs working there. 

Scope hated it, he was already feeling dirty, but the building was vile, there was no way they were getting out without some infection that would never go away. Just standing in the waiting room was enough to make his plating crawl and knowing he was there to be fixed made it so much worse. He doubted that even a week of his best cleaning could get the place up to standard. 

Tripwire marched to the front desk and Scope followed, sidestepping a pool of partly dried energon and knocking into a chair, sending an avalanche of rusty paint chips snowing down on him. He shuddered and shook them off, closing his vents to stop them getting inside his frame. 

"We're expected. Scope has an after hours appointment." 

The reception mech barely looked up, "down the hall, second door on the right. Rivet is your medic."

Tripwire grabbed Scope's wrist and pulled him down the hallway, knocking loudly on the door and then pushing it open without waiting for a reply.

Rivet was a slum medic, he couldn't be anything else with his chipped paint, dented plating and rust spots the size of fists. He looked tired and worn out, it had obviously been a long day for him and Scope could tell that he wished he was somewhere else, anywhere else. The young gunformer didn't want the mech anywhere near him, let alone touching him. Rivet needed a medic himself, as he moved, his joints squeaked and his hip made a horrid grinding sound that sent shivers down his visitor's backstruts. 

"Up on the berth," he said to Tripwire, rubbing his yellow optics. 

Tripwire looked offended by the implication he would ever visit a mech like Rivet for his own needs. "You're fixing the rifle, not me. I need him disarmed and I need a certificate that says that he's neutralised. He needs to pass an Academy safety test so don't do a shoddy job because I'll know."

Rivet shook his head, "I don't deal in his kind. I have no experience with disposables, I deal with large mechs."

Tripwire leaned over the mechs untidy desk, "if you want my credits then you'll fix the fragging rifle. It's not as if I am making you do this for free."

Scope had backed away in a panic, his back against the door. He didn't want to be disarmed! What use was a rifle that couldn't shoot? It was the cruellest thing Scope could imagine. To take away a mechs very function, to remove who they were, to make them useless. If he ran he'd continue to be a proper rifle and might get lucky and pick up a new owner, but with the amount of disposables on the street it was highly unlikely. If he stayed he was going to be neutered and ruined forever. What should he do? /I don't want to be neutralised!/

"Scope, get your aft on the examination table right now and shut up."

Scope backed himself further into the corner, /please don't do this. Please!/

Tripwire grabbed his rifle and dragged him to the table. Scope fought back with his full might, twisting desperately in the grip and kicking out at Rivet violently. Something stabbed at the port in his arm and Scope screamed as the medical program tore through his firewalls like they didn't even exist. He sobbed and went limp in Tripwire's grip as the program put him into forced stasis. 

As his vision faded, Scope prayed he wouldn't wake up. 

Being dead was better than being a rifle that couldn't shoot.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No real warnings for this chapter. There's nothing in this that I haven't touched on before. At least I don't think there is.

It was his creation all over again. Only this time it felt far worse. 

His original onlining had been bad enough. Waking up alone in a room full of his sleeping siblings, calling for help and having no one come for him. The feeling of pure fear gripping his spark was something he'd never forget. The tightness that constricted his spark like a vice as he questioned his future. His creation hadn't been met with comfort or friendly words, no gentle hugs to ease him into what would be a hard life. Instead he'd been called defective and sold at a major discount to the only mech who wanted him. A mech who had bartered down his already cheap price and ended up paying the equivalent of a few weeks worth of energon. It was a harsh start, but dispersed between moments of fear and uncertainty had been hope. Hope that his new owner would be a good mech and that their life together would be happy one. Fresh off the creation line and at the peak of working order, Scope thought he'd had everything to look forward to. 

This time, that hope was gone and his wishes were hollow.

His room wasn't particularly comfortable, but it wasn't as bad as Scope had imagined it could be. The only window was high up the wall opposite the door, the glass, covered in a thick layer of pollution and dust didn't let much light in and what did come through was a muted yellow. 

Onlining in the cold, dirty room, wrapped in an old blanket, Scope couldn't bring himself to move, not even to kind the energon stained material from him frame. For once in his life he felt no fear and no hate, nothing else to focus on but the chasm of emptiness in his chest. His spark felt numb, dead, the scary part to him was that it was an improvement over the false hope he'd given himself in the past. 

How long had it been since his creation? Two, three months? Longer? 

It felt like an eternity. 

Scope threw the blanket off his frame and swung his legs over the edge of the medical berth. Frame still drowsy from the sedative, he staggered as his feet hit the floor. His foggy processor was slow and his limbs felt heavy, as if weights had been attached. A was of nausea and dizziness washed over him and his hands gripped the berth tightly to stop himself falling. Something was wrong with his frame but he couldn't pinpoint what it was exactly. It was a disconcerting feeling, too heavy in some places, too light in others, his back burned and itched and his processor recognised no shooting protocols. His sluggish mind chalked it up to the medical procedure and drugs coursing through his lines. Finding Tripwire was his priority, everything else could wait. 

Stumbling forward, he caught himself on a wheeled medical cart that offered no support and instead shot across the floor. Scope found himself scrabbling to pull the trolley back towards him, but his limbs flailed as he tried to control them. Fine motor control was impossible to him and he sniggered, breaking into a laugh as he snagged the trolley and hugged it so it couldn't escape again. 

Pushing the trolley ahead of him, Scope kept a tight grip on it, walking it around the room as he got used to moving his body again. The room was small, walking space limited by antiquated consoles and storage units, what floor space was left was worn thin. Everything in the room seemed well cared for, but everything had seen better days. In comparison, Tripwire's shiny, pristine equipment looked brand new and Scope knew it had all been brought second hand. 

Next to the berth there was a small console that beeped in time with Scope's spark. The gunformer inspected it closely, tracing his fingers over the bare metal, stopping only to follow a wire plugged in at the front, it led to his chest. For a few moments he stared at it in surprise, then peeled the sticker off his chest and dropped it to the floor. The machine - a spark rate monitor - beeped loudly when it could no longer detect a pulse. The loud, unexpected screeching scared Scope and he darted back, tripping over the medical trolley and sending everything clattering to the floor with a loud crash. 

Footsteps pounded down the hallway in response. Scope was hasty to untangle himself from the trolley, quickly trying to right it all before he was caught accidentally destroying the room. He'd just managed to right the trolley and was in the middle of picking up the tools and readers when the door flew open and Rivet took a hasty look around. "I was warned you were a troublemaker." he said, his tone was far gentler than it had been on their first meeting, but that didn't stop Scope from flinching when he was touched and steered back to the berth. 

"Relax, I'm not going to hurt you. You shouldn't be out of your berth yet."

Scope wasn't exactly helpful as Rivet tried to helped him back into his berth, his limbs didn't want to comply and he didn't want to be touched. The loud monitor alarm was silenced with a reset and the wires were reattached to his chest. "Stay there and I'll bring you some energon. I've already filled your tank once but you burned through that. It's been a while since you had a good meal hasn't it?"

Scope nodded, both in response to the question and sudden realisation that he was indeed low on fuel. A heavy hand patted his thigh and Rivet left to collect a fresh cube. 

Scope relaxed, listening to the steady beeping of the console as he stared up at the ceiling. It was a shade of off white that was covered in a web of cracks and curled paint chips. He found it quite relaxing to follow the cracks like a maze, trying to get from one wall to the other without breaking the line. Half way across the ceiling it suddenly occurred to him that he was lying on his back, a task usually made impossible by the vents and barrel. Dizziness threatened to knock him offline as he sat up sharply and threw a hand back to feel for his barrel. It met air. Craning his neck to the left, he tried to see it. The noise he made was pitiful, a low whine of mental agony. 

Being so unbalanced when he walked made sense now, the weight off his back had changed his centre of balance. 

/What am I now?/ He asked the empty room, his voice tight and small. What was a rifle who wasn't a rifle any more? What was the point of a mech with no purpose? 

Rivet returned to a mech who'd wedged himself in the corner of the room and surrounded himself with an impenetrable wall of objects. Effectively locking himself away from the world. "I thought I told you to stay in the berth?"

Scope looked at the medic blankly, /what am I?/

"Ah." Rivet sighed as set the cube down on the berth and looked Scope over. His patient seemed so hopeless curled up in the corner, his optics dull and lifeless. Guilt filled Rivet, he'd done this, he'd played his part in hurting a mech who couldn't fight back. Now he had a responsibility to make sure he was cared for while he was in his care. He crossed his arms on the medical trolley that separated himself from Scope and leaned over to look at him, "that's the question isn't it? The answer is never the same depending on who you ask. You're something to everyone, but not everyone knows what you are. To Tripwire, you're a tool, a drone with a spark. To me, you're my patient. To a fundamentalist, you are worthless. Anyone can tell you what you are, but in the end, only you know who you are. So who are you?"

Scope stared at the medic and pulled his knees up tighter to his chest, /I am an abomination now./

That stung. Disposables were already treated so terribly by every other aspect of society, sold and traded between owners, recycled when they were no longer wanted. A medic's job was to help mechs, not help ruin them. To see a mech as young as Scope but dead inside, it pained him both professionally and personally. "You aren't an abomination," he said softly, "your frame is changed, but it isn't permanent. It isn't going to take long to repair you when Tripwire wants to undo all of this. I know it must feel terrible, but it isn't the end of your function."

A quick scan of his system and Scope felt a lot worse. Integral parts of his coding were missing or sealed up behind security protected walls only Tripwire could open. /I am not a rifle any more. You made me useless./

Rivet had no answer for that. He vented quietly, "I am sorry, Scope. Truly I am." 

Scope ignored the apology. The words were meaningless to him and the damage was done. /Where is my owner?/ He looked nervously towards the door, /he doesn't like it when I talk to mechs./ 

"He's not here, he will come and collect you when I contact him." His voice softened. He'd made a mistake operating on Scope, but he took comfort in knowing he had and would treat Scope with respect and care, unlike some of the other medics who would have operated and sent Scope straight back to Tripwire, giving him no recovery time. "I was going to contact him tomorrow. It will give you enough time to get a long recharge and fill up on good energon. I'll tell him that there were some complications and that's why it took so long." 

/Thank you,/ Scope replied in a whisper. His spark called for Tripwire, but he didn't really want him there. The time away from Tripwire without worry of violence was welcome relief.

"Are you going to come out of that corner now or would you prefer your energon down there?"

Scope shook his head, /I like the corner. It's safe here./ 

Rivet pushed away from the trolley and grabbed the energon cube from the berth, carefully handing it down to Scope with an injector unit. "Can I sit with you?"

Scope took the cube and cocked his head, confusion clear. /No one has ever asked my permission for anything. Why do you care if I say yes? You could just do it./

"You should have a choice. If your corner is safe then I don't want to intrude."

It was nice, to be asked what he wanted, if he said no then he honestly believed Rivet would respect it and leave. Although he could say no, the company was nice and Rivet - despite his involvement with his downgrade - had been kind to him. Just the show of kindness was enough, Scope craved it like a starved mech and gave a nod to Rivet as he pushed the trolley out with his foot, /you can come in if you want./

Rivet smiled warmly and side-stepped the trolley, the space was cramped and he didn't have much room to turn around without accidentally standing on Scope. He slid down the wall slowly, showering Scope in paint chips and dust. The little rifle spluttered and quickly shook them off, shuddering and pushing them off his shoulders quickly, /you should clean up, it's not very nice. In here./

"I don't have the time to do that and I can't afford to hire someone to decorate for me. The time I spend painting could be better used helping a mech. I know it isn't the prettiest medical facility, but we do good work here and we help a lot of mechs who can't afford to go anywhere else." Credits were a problem too, it would be expensive to redecorate purely for looks. Everything in the centre was old, but what needed to be maintained was. 

/You help all the mechs who get injured?/

Rivet nodded, "yes. Lots of mechs can't afford to go to the clinics so we do what we can for them here." Most mechs couldn't pay anything, so when Tripwire had offered a more than fair price for the work on Scope, Rivet would have been hard pressed to turn it down. Charity was hard work and sadly didn't pay the bills. 

/That's nice of you./ He twisted away from Rivet as much as he could, shielding his injection from view. Rivet didn't seem to mind seeing it, but Scope was well used to Tripwire telling him it was disgusting. 

/Why do you speak this? Tripwire said no slum mechs speak it because they're all uneducated grunts./

Rivet chuckled and shook his head, "that's not true. Just because mechs don't get all the learning opportunities of a city mech, doesn't mean they are uneducated. A lot of mechs teach themselves what they want to know. In my case, I studied at the Iacon Academy, I was a city medic once. Don't you know they call Primal Vernacular the language of the scholars? It makes you one of the educated masses. Most research datapads are written in primal, it's an old tradition. I think it just makes smart mechs feel smarter."

/It does?/

Rivet nodded, "it's just another way of educated mechs making themselves feel like they're above the workers. Like your mech said, no uneducated mech knows how to read or speak Primal. They aren't going to be able to read the newest research papers or teach themselves science or medicine. So instead of learning and working their way up in the world, they're forced to go and rent the skills of a mech who'll charge them a huge amount of credits for their work. It's very, very hard for slum mechs to make it out of them slums, they stay poor and under the thumb of skilled mechs. It's a winning situation for the Senate, they have a never ending supply of mechs so desperate for work that they'll do anything."

/That's not fair./

"No, it is not, but that is what the Senate wants. They work hard to make sure the working mechs work. That is why functionalism is such a strict thing and getting out of a job assigned to your frame is so hard. They fear the workers. See, there are hundreds of working mechs to every skilled mech and a revolt from the workers would do a lot of damage. The Senate forces the workers to obey oppressive laws, if they try and fight them then terrible things happen. They get arrested and taken to places where unspeakable things happen, they come out a completely different mech, if they come out at all. Tripwire said you're both off to the city and you're moving in to Academy accommodation, you'll meet a lot of mechs there and you'll see and hear terrible things that are disguised as 'the right thing'.

Scope hugged his knees back to his chest, /I don't want to go. It sounds horrible./

"I don't blame you, but it's not so bad once you settle in and you do have Tripwire to protect you which is something."

A long sigh escaped Scope's vents, /I am scared./ It wasn't something he would ever admit if he was still a rifle, but he was defenceless now and the city sounded like a terrible place to be for a mech who couldn't look after himself.

Rivet stroked Scope's back in a way he hoped was comforting, "change is always hard and you're so young. Follow your mech closely and do what he says. You're in a good position right now, even though it doesn't seem that way. The change to your frame wasn't cheap so he obviously wants to keep you around for a while. Personally, I think it's safe to say that you aren't going anywhere any time soon. Work hard and stay out of trouble, learn what you can, don't wait to be taught things. Teach yourself. As long as you have a place to live and energon to survive on then you'll be ok, the rest is up to you. Nothing lasts forever, Scope, when he's out of the academy, he'll get your frame fixed."

/How do you know that?/

"Because he was very clear with his instructions, he demanded that any modifications had to be simple and cheap to fix. It's why you ended up with your barrel and vents being removed instead of being code locked. Believe it or not, it's easier to reattach those parts than to unwrite a code lock."

Scope looked Rivet, taking in the chipped, discoloured paint, the dents and cracks. Rivet wasn't as old as he'd first assumed and if he took more care of his frame then he would be quite attractive. Scope turned his head away and hid his face on his knees as he realised what a mistake he'd made in judging Rivet based on his looks. He should have known better. Mechs judged him for being a rifle all the time, it was hateful and never felt good. Sure, Rivet was no Tripwire, but what he lacked in looks he more than made up for in other places, kindness and compassionate went a long way. Tripwire would have never come and sat with him just to make him feel better, yet here was Rivet - on his off shift when he could have been home recharging - sitting on the floor behind a makeshift wall, just so Scope didn't have to be alone. 

/I am sorry,/ Scope whispered.

"Hmm? For what?" 

Scope shifted uncomfortably, too afraid to meet Rivet's gaze, /when Tripwire brought me in, I hated you, I didn't want you to touch me or fix me. I wanted you to stay away. You're dirty and you sounded harsh, like Tripwire in a bad mood./

Surprising Scope, Rivet laughed, "ah, well that's ok. If I was you, I wouldn't have wanted a medic touching me either. Not when I didn't know what was happening and no one had told me anything. I'm sorry I was rough on you." 

Scope nodded and shifted closer to Rivet, the dirt was off putting, but the joy of a comforting touch outweighed the cons. Like a turbohound begging for attention, he pressed his side to Rivet's and tried to work his way under the medic's arm. Rivet watched him for a few seconds, smiled softly, amused by the rifle's antics and lifted his arm so Scope could snuggle under it. Scope practically draped himself over the medic, little engine revving quietly and he was given the attention and comfort that he so obviously craved.

\--------

Scope woke on the berth. Unlike the other times he'd woken, he was incredibly comfortable and warm. So warm that he didn't want to move. He'd been tucked into a dark grey heating blanket that moulded around his frame, he assumed it was Rivet who did it, but it could have been one of the nurses. The few aches that had been left from the surgery were gone, soothed away by the warmth and pain medication. Briefly he sat up to look for Rivet and found the room empty and quiet, even the beep of the spark monitor was gone. Happy to spend as much time as possible under the heated blanket, he snuggled down and offlined his optics, sinking back into a dream of Tripwire being the perfect owner. If only Rivet would come back and cuddle with him then he couldn't ask for more.

His spark ached for Tripwire, but his processor wanted the gentle touch and comforting embrace of Rivet. Falling asleep on the medic was blissful, just knowing that one mech cared helped take away some of the numbness around his spark. The amount of hate he was feeling towards his owner scared him. He'd always considered himself a bit of a pacifist, the thought of hurting mechs upset him, but Tripwire wasn't worried about hurting him. 

Shaking the thoughts out of his head, Scope spent the morning dozing off, checked on once by the nurse and a once by a medic with a bedside manner that would rival one of Tripwire's foul moods. At midday the nurse brought him a cube of energon and left him to refuel in peace. 

Between the long rest, the good energon, warmth and care, Scope was feeling better than he had since joining Tripwire. Unfortunately his rest was short lived and his relaxed mood shattered when Tripwire arrived later that night, storming in like a tornado of agitation and stress. Scope could feel his owner's spark dominate his own, forcing him back into the role of obedient servant. 

He wanted to cry, it had been so nice without him. 

Rivet led Tripwire into the room, fresh back on shift he still managed to look tired and worn. 

"Get up, lazy mech," Tripwire frowned, "have you lay there all day?"

Rivet stepped between them and glared Tripwire down, daring him to touch Scope while he was there. "He's just had a major shock to his system, he's going to be tired for a while until his processor adjusts," he lied, "I warned you that such a shock to his system wasn't going to be easy for him."

"I don't care what's easy for him, he's my mech and he'll do what he's told, and right now I want him up so we can go. Did you really keep me waiting all day so he could recharge?" 

Scope wanted to stay where he was but an order had been issued and he had no choice but to obey. He pushed the warm blanket off and suppressed a shiver at the cool air. Carefully he swung his legs over the side of the berth of slipped to the floor. While Rivet was arguing with Tripwire about his recovery care, Scope took the time to adjust to moving around with his changed balance issues. Now his processor was clear of sedatives and painkillers, he adjusted fairly quickly. 

"He's ready to go then?" Asked Tripwire, ignoring the information he'd been given.

Rivet gritted his dentals, suddenly feeling worse for Scope than he had, "I am going to run some final scans on him. Just to check he's going to have no problems, it isn't going to take long. You can go and pay his fee and he'll be ready when you get back."

"Make sure he is," Tripwire said, turning on his heel and marching down to the front desk.

Rivet tutted and shook his head, "fragging tower mechs. I've never met a good one."

/Thank you for last night,/ Scope said quickly, afraid that Tripwire would overhear and demand to know what happened. He doubted Tripwire would take it well if he knew a mech had treated him like a mech instead of a drone. Like he was a normal being and not something to be thrown away. Rivet had cared.

Rivet smiled and patted Scope's head affectionately, "you're welcome, your company was enjoyable too. I'm sorry I couldn't stick around all night for you, I brought you something though." He reached into his subspace and pulled out a small vial, inside was a crystal and some paint flakes, "I know it doesn't look like much, but it's a piece of the slums for you to take to the city. When I moved there, I got really home sick really badly and it was nice to have something that reminded me of home. It's probably really silly, but now you can take your home with you and as long as you keep the vial, you'll never be far from home."

Scope held the vial up to the light so that he could see the glow of the pink crystal. It was a little thing, stupid to most mechs, but to Scope it was the most important thing in the whole universe. It was the first thing that was HIS, something he OWNED. He gripped it tight to his chest and looked at Rivet. His vents hitched, choked up, and like a bolt of lightning, Scope jumped up and wrapped his arms around Rivet, hugging him tightly and burying his face against the larger mech's neck, /thank you!/ 

Rivet hugged him close and stroked his back, "you're welcome, Scope. Come on, before your mech comes storming back in here." He gently pushed Scope away and dusted him down. In the short time they'd been together, Rivet had to admit that he had a soft spot for Scope, the innocence of youth and the harsh start to life, the cruel downgrade from his original form. No mech should have to deal with that and Tripwire.

Scope held the vial to his chest in both hands, /he'll take my crystal from me./

"Use your subspace and hide it away."

/How?/

Rivet raised an optic ridge in disbelief, "you don't know how to use your subspace?" 

Scope shook his head, /do I even have one?/ 

"Every mech has one, you should have been taught how to use it." Pulling a connection wire from his forearm, Rivet plugged into Scope and ran through his coding quickly, unlocking a few commands. "There, you can use it now. Tripwire should have unlocked that for you ages ago." 

Scope was excited by the new revelation and subspaced the vial, fascinated, he pulled it out again and repeated the actions, looking more amazed each time, /that's amazing!/ If only he'd known about it when he was able to collect Tripwire's part empty cubes. It would have been easy to collect a whole cube and get his energon high, he could have had a whole stash of it to use at his leisure. 

His excitement was met with a chuckle, "come on, lets get you back to your mech before he comes searching for you."

Scope nodded and followed his new friend down the hallway to the reception desk where Tripwire was just finishing up. "He is working?" Tripwire asked, his gaze lingering on Scope's altered frame for a few seconds, "he looks terrible."

Rivet shrugged and patted Scope's shoulder, "he's working. He only looks like this because you made him."

Tripwire growled at the medic, "watch your mouth, it'll get you in trouble. Lets go Scope. We have a transport to catch."

Scope took his place at Tripwire's side and turned to sadly wave a goodbye to Rivet while Tripwire wasn't looking. When Rivet waved back and smiled warmly, Scope just felt sad. Even though Scope hated the building and the dirt, and was glad to be outside where it was cleaner, leaving his new friend hurt. If Rivet had offered to keep him, Scope would have stayed and the medical centre would have been spotless. 

It was much easier for him to keep up with Tripwire now that he wasn't leaving a trail of his internals and energon behind him. Tripwire walked fast and Scope was still learning his new centre of balance, but he kept up well enough through the semi-busy streets. A final look back towards the medical centre and Scope could see the line of mechs getting ready to enter. It was going to be a busy night for Rivet. 

The walk itself was almost pleasant. Tripwire was quiet, his thoughts somewhere else. It left Scope free to focus on the world around them, a task made harder now he didn't have access to his targeting systems. His thoughts lingered on Rivet and how kind he'd been. Like Trigger, Rivet helped prove to him that good mechs existed. Good mechs who were his friends.

The transport station wasn't a long walk, but by the time they reached it, Scope was exhausted. The station was located on a wide and very busy street that could only be crossed by bridges. Instead of going to the usual stop - which took them towards the market and shooting range - Tripwire crossed the nearest bridge and sat down on the long bench to wait. 

Scope was fine with waiting, he needed time to cool his systems. He rocked on his heels and thought about the gift in his subspace. As soon as he was alone, he was going to look at it again. 

His happy mood ended abruptly when he saw his reflection. The first time he saw it, he didn't recognise himself and thought it was another mech. The second time, he did a double take a took a step closer to check it out. The shop's window distorted his image, but it was clear enough to turn Scope's tanks to ice and twist his spark. 

He looked nothing like a rifle any more and the grim reality of his situation crashed down around him. 

His frame had been stripped back to its most simple form. Huge parts of his protoform were visible in the gaps of his missing armour, leaving him feeling naked and vulnerable. A twisted, ruined hybrid of a rifle and a drone. No one would guess he was a rifle or ever had been, his frame was unidentifiable, as basic as a drones. He'd hated it before when mechs assumed he was a drone with a spark, but to actually look like a drone was a cruel fate. Now instead of just being thought of as disposable, he was going to be treated as if he had no spark at all. 

The noise of distress he made could have melted the coldest of sparks. 

Apart from Tripwire who tutted and looked over at him, "you should say thank you."

Scope stiffened, straightened and very slowly turned to face Tripwire, his emotions reined in tight to save himself from the explosion that threatened to break free and get him in trouble. /Sir?/

"You heard me." 

Scope struggled to find anything he should be thankful for. His frame was a mess, he had a vile owner and he was about to be moved into the city. It took every ounce of will power not to ask why he should even think of saying thank you. Tripwire had forced his frame change and he was supposed to be thankful? He just wanted to cry and scream. His fuel tank felt heavy as the energon inside churned. He felt sick and weak, his fists clenched so tight that he dented the softer metal of his palms. The swirl of emotion was almost too much for him and he braced himself against the window before he fell to his knees. 

Primus how he wanted Rivet back to tell him that everything would be ok. 

Out of everything Tripwire had ever done, this was the worst to Scope. The beatings and starvation had been bad, but they were nothing compared to making him a drone. 

Being told he was going to be neutered was bad enough when he thought he was just going to be code locked. His ability to fire there but unusable. To be changed into something he didn't want to be, it was inhumane. Scope felt true anger when Tripwire smacked his arm and told him to be thankful he was still alive at all. 

"I didn't have to do this, I could have sent you to be recycled. You're a credit pit, I just keep laying credits out on you and getting nothing in return. You don't need to be a rifle where we're going. You've always been a cleaner, now you just match your use."

Scope offlined his optics and forcibly slowed his vents. Biting back on his words only got more difficult as Tripwire continued talking. Reining his anger in was even harder. 

The arrival of the transport pulling up at the station was a blessed relief to Scope who snatched at the distraction and quickly boarded. He found a seat and sat down, offlining his optics so he didn't have to see his reflection in the window. Tripwire's voice still sounded in his audials, each would more disrespectful than the last. According to Tripwire, rifles were the lowest disposable class and Scope should be glad he was moving up in the world. 

Offended didn't even begin to describe how Scope felt. He tried to shut Tripwire out as best he could and thought about Rivet and Trigger. 

One day, when he had everything he wanted and he'd found an owner who was a good mech. Scope vowed that Tripwire would meet his end in a painful and bloody manner. Screaming in agony as the mech he'd called a slave destroyed him slowly and laughed at his cries of pain. 

Yes, hope for a better life was gone, but something stronger had grown in its place. Anger, hate and plans for revenge.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warning for panic attacks.

Iacon, Tripwire had called it, City of Genius and Innovation. Scope remained sceptical of that and mentally listed five sarcastic answers he wished he had the courage to verbalise. Still angry over his forced modification, he'd spent the entire trip imagining new and inventive ways to hurt his owner, each one more elaborate and impossible that the last. 

It had been a - very - long trip. Whether it was actually long or not, Scope was unaware, it felt like an eternity and without half-clocks to count it may as well have been. Time was a mysterious thing. 

The transport itself was large and roomy, six sets of benches were evenly spaced down each side, leaving a walkway through the middle just wide enough for a large grounder to squeeze through. All of the other benches were unoccupied. Not many mechs could afford to escape the poverty of the slums and there was no point anyway, for a mech designated as a miner, there were no jobs in the city. So why - with all the empty seats - had Tripwire decided that the best place to sit was next to Scope? Pining the smaller mechs already aching frame against the wall and window. It wasn't comfortable for either of them, for a while it had been fine, but an hour in and Scope was hurting, fighting off the urge to fidget into a more comfortable position. Rivet's painkiller were starting to wear off and the burn of his raw circuits and plating was like a hot poker in his side. 

Tripwire's excitement radiated off him in waves, literally, Scope could feel it in the jet's EMF and through the bond. It sickened him. He wanted to be angry, he wanted to grieve for his missing parts and kick and scream that his life was unfair and cruel. He wanted to stand in the middle of a busy crowd and scream that Tripwire was abusive and violent, but like everything else in his life, Tripwire had the final say. Joy, excitement, pleasure, hope, determination and more excitement flooded through the bond, overwriting what Scope was feeling and forcing him to suffer through the new emotion. It wasn't enough that Tripwire had taken everything away from him, now he was taking away the right to have his own emotions. 

Scope tried to be angry again, to no avail. The excitement in his spark was a colourful poison. 

Against his wishes, his body was responding to Tripwire's feelings, his spark was light and happy, crystal-flutterers settled in his fuel tank and his processor was restless. Strange didn't quite cover how he felt. The anger still burned in his processor, strong and bitter as always, but it was an intangible thing, something he knew was there but couldn't grasp. It a black mist slowly dissolving in to the bright colours of positive emotion. 

He wanted to scream and fight, why wasn't he allowed to be angry?!

Tripwire sitting so close to him suddenly made sense, the large jet was doing it on purpose, the bond was strongest when their sparks were closest and Tripwire was using that to forcibly overwrite anything he didn't like. A fresh wave of anger flared in Scope, gone as fast as it arrived, swapped out for a taste of more dreaded excitement. 

The frustration stayed. 

Tripwire's long, blade-like wings quivered continuously through the trip, occasionally fluttering on Scope's shoulder in an irritating way. The touch - as much as it disgusted him - made Scope's spark jump with pleasure. Physically he looked like a faceless drone, but his coding was still that of a rifle and his desire to be touched, picked up and used was as strong as ever. Stronger even. Memories that seemed to have happened an eternity ago flashed through his mind; nights at the shooting alley, being told he'd done well, having Tripwire pleased with him, the one time Tripwire had looked proud of how fast he learnt and adapted to the targets. It didn't seem like too much to want that again. 

As the bright city lights crested the horizon, Tripwire pointed out of the window, guiding Scope's optics towards the high spires and neon lights, as if Scope was too stupid to see it for himself. Again the older mech started speaking about how wealthy and respected he'd be once he'd made a name for himself at the Academy. It was exactly the same conversation he'd already had four times already and Scope was sick of hearing it. He'd love to say he cared, but he didn't, he'd rather see Tripwire fail at everything and end up a miner. 

Like a good mech, Scope paid some attention to what was being said, enough to add an encouraging nod or head shake if he felt the conversation needed one. Tripwire didn't seem to notice, he was so wrapped up in his bubble of excitement and joy, riding on delusional visions of grandeur. He spoke animatedly, explaining in detail how clever his entry essay had been and how quickly he'd been offered a place. Scope vented quietly, wishing for the silence and loneliness he'd used to hate. 

After hearing about how everyone in the city was the best in their fields, Scope had begun to question everything Tripwire was saying. However it was only when he saw the vast sprawl of the city that he had his epiphany moment and all his questioned fitted together like a completed puzzle. If everyone in the city was as smart as Tripwire was saying they were, then how was Tripwire any different? What made him stand out from the crowd? How was he going to make a name for himself when everyone else was trying to do the same? How could he prove he was smarter than everyone else when there were probably mechs smarter than him? 

In a world of genius and shining brilliance, Tripwire was going to be average, perhaps even below average, just another mech with a pretty face. It was easy to be a genius in the slums where the level of education didn't go much further than how to swing an axe, but in a city of geniuses, what was considered special?

Granted, Scope had no idea how smart Tripwire really was, his owner could have been the smartest mech on all of Cybertron or just slightly above average. There was no denial in his mind that Tripwire was smart, how smart was the question. Although uneducated, Scope wasn't as stupid, he was well aware that there was always someone better. Tripwire wouldn't believe that though, there was never going to be another mech like him. 

That single thought had brightened Scope's spark more than anything else and for a short time actually enjoyed his dark thoughts combined with the forced positive emotions. It was a twisted pleasure and instead of being disgusted with himself, he was happy. After everything Tripwire had done to him, he was going to enjoy watching the mech's downfall and the best part of it was that he had a front row seat. 

"You're happy?" Asked Tripwire, fixing Scope with a suspicious look. 

The lie was easy, but just to be on the safe side, the rifle reined his emotions in tight and stopped swinging his legs under the chair. /You are happy, Sir, I can feel it. It makes me happy too,/ he answered in a sweet tone. Whether it was a good thing or not, he had perfected the art of lying, it was a necessity when the truth would result in a painful slap. /You are my owner, Sir, of course I want the best for you./ The lie was acid on his tongue, but his tone was still kind and innocent.

Tripwire smiled at that, "yes I suppose you would. After all, me getting what I want keeps you online and you like being online don't you?" He never saw the flash of anger in Scope's optics as he returned to talking about his new Professor, a mech called Perceptor, a true genius among geniuses. The one mech who would see his true potential and gift him the honour of being his personal intern, a spot that would be coveted by all of his future class mates. The chance to intern at a private laboratory, get taught one-on-one by the best minds in their fields, get the chance to work on their own projects and use the most state of the art equipment. It would be a much needed helping hand into the industry for whoever was lucky enough to get it. Tripwire was determined to be the lucky student.

Scope hoped Perceptor was a terrible teacher, a nasty, cruel mech. One who would make Tripwire's life a living hell. Even if Tripwire's downfall took him with it, it would be worth it to see his owner's pain as his world was ruined. 

Twenty minutes later the transport pulled into the station and came to a shuddering stop, violently launching both passengers forward into the chair in front of them. Tripwire stood and was at the door before it had even opened. Scope was slower, the painful stop hadn't helped his aching frame and he wanted just a few seconds to stretch out the stiffness from his joints. 

"Come on, come on," Tripwire chanted quietly, foot tapping. 

With a hiss the doors opened and Tripwire was gone, marching down the platform like a mech on a mission. Scope was hesitant, lingering in the doorway as he surveyed the platform. A high dividing wall separated his platform from the ones beyond, blocking his vision, but not the noise or smells. It was overwhelming to hear so many disembodied voices, ghosts carried on the night air, a low hum of indistinguishable words with the occasional punctuation of hissing breaks and the squealing of metal on metal. 

"Scope, get your aft over here," shouted Tripwire. He'd stopped in the middle of the platform, arms crossed over his chest, impatience personified, "do not make me come and get you!"

Scope jumped at the tone, but the transport was safe and he didn't want to leave it for the open and probably more than a little dangerous station. How easy would it be to stay on the transport and go back to Rivet? Life would be dirty and he'd probably have a life of cleaning and acting as a medical assistant, but at least Rivet would care for him, maybe even give him his rifle parts back. Compared to the calming thoughts of Rivet, the station was a scary, noisy, smelly place and if Scope was honest with himself, he was embarrassed to be seen in his current state.

Although...going with Tripwire did mean watching the mech's inevitable downfall and he wanted to see that more than he wanted another night in Rivet's lap. 

Seconds ticked by. Scope shifted uneasily, his hands tight on the door frame. 

Tripwire shouted again, "Scope, I am warning you. If you make me walk back there then you aren't walking again." 

Scope flinched, inching back into the transport's cabin. The station sounds made it hard to think, bombarding his processor with so much noise that he couldn't process anything. Again he asked himself how hard it would be to disobey Tripwire and go back to Rivet, but the more he tried to think of an answer, the harder it began get just to remember names. The familiar surge of panic curled around his fuel tank, Tripwire was going to be angry with him again.

He had just been about to run to the back of the transport and wedge himself between the seats when the whole vehicle moved, shaking violently under his feet. "Get off me, you're eating into my break time," the transport growled as it shook harder, bouncing from wheel to wheel in an effort to dislodge Scope from his doorway. 

Scope - who hadn't even registered the transport was a mech - cried out in shock and bolted towards Tripwire, his station fear forgotten as shock took over his frame. Behind him the transport transformed, turned and stomped off for its break, shaking the ground with its huge, heavy footsteps. Scope managed a glance over his shoulder once he was a far enough away to be sure he wouldn't be stepped on, the behemoth was larger than anything else he'd ever seen before. Miners were large, but nothing compared to the giant they had ridden in. 

Tripwire slapped the back of Scope's head hard enough to send the small mech staggering forward, "don't keep me waiting, Scope."

The blow was completely unexpected, it shouldn't have been, but Scope's attention was on the giant. Once he'd caught himself, he moved back to Tripwire's side, /no, Sir. I'm sorry, Sir./ 

At the far end of the platform was a set of turnstiles and a mech checking tickets. It was through the gap in the turnstiles that Scope got his first glimpse of how vast the station was. He should have guessed it wouldn't be small like the one in the slums, Iacon was a huge city and it made sense that its main station could cope with all the travellers that would want to get there. Tripwire handed his ticket over and pushed Scope through the rotating gate. 

The quick glimpse of the station had not done it justice, as a architectural building it was stunning, glistening white and silver. High vaulted ceilings were supported on ornate pillars, each carved with different formulas and equations, each one a ground breaking discovery now immortalised with its discoverer's name. A second mezzanine floor looked out over the station, a drinking area for mechs to have one last drink together, or their first, it was served by a large energon bar manned by a handful of mechs. Back on the ground floor, shops lined the east and west walls, all brightly lit and filled with expensive looking wares, worked by mechs who looked like they'd never done a day of hard labour in their entire lives. From the ceiling hung large announcement boards, listing transports with their times of arrival and departure, the numbers constantly changed and moved. The noise was almost deafening, a constant hum of shouts as mechs struggled to be heard in the echoing hall. 

It was early in the morning, the slums would be silent by now as mechs recharged ready for the long day ahead, the night shift workers would be halfway through their shifts. Scope had expected Iacon to be the same, but he couldn't have been more wrong. Iacon was never quiet. The station swarmed with mechs, a forest of legs constantly moving, a disorientating sight for any mech who lacked height. 

"This is the final call for all passengers riding transport delta-six-three-four-four to Nyon, please report to platform sixteen. Transport is ready to depart," the cheery voice of the loud-speaker said. It sparked a rush of mechs stampeding towards the far side of the station, lucky for Scope, in the opposite direction to him.

He couldn't move, he wanted to run and find a safe place to hide, block out the sounds and the swarming mechs and go back to his happy mind palace where his owner loved him and took care of him. The sea of terror spread out before him, a swirling mass of bright colours, distorted EMF readings and noise, picking out one mech was an impossible task. Like static on a bad holoscreen, Scope's optics were fuzzy, sight had never been his strongest sense and his basic optics couldn't keep up with the flurry of information. The images in Scope's mind were distorted, blurred shapes and swirls of colour. It made Scope feel sick, his optics couldn't be trusted and his audials were almost as bad, too much sound and suddenly the world was vibrating in a rhythm he'd never experienced before. His audials popped and rung, resetting themselves in an effort to cut out the static. 

Deep into his panic, Scope's spark raced, pounding in his chest like a jack-hammer, the world span around around him in a dizzy haze too much information. All at once he was too hot, too cold, too crowded, too alone, too scared and not scared enough. Fans racing at their highest speed couldn't cool his frame fast enough, they hitched and slowed, the sound - although loud - was lost under a scared whimper. 

Scope managed to back himself against the turnstile blade, using at as protection so no one could advance on him from behind. His jumbled processor worked like a scratched holodisk, taking parts of information it received to build a less than accurate model of what was around them. The newly formed map was a box, filled with mechs and no exits. 

He could think of nothing else except that he was going to offline. 

To his side, Tripwire was talking with a station guard, speaking with animated gestures as he was given directions. Scope could just about see where Tripwire being directed, a large arch at the far end - past the ticket booths. The distance between them and the exit grew each time he looked up, getting further and further away. 

He locked his optics on his feet and gripped the turnstile tight enough to make the joints in his fingers hurt. His frame was shaking violently now and seconds ticked by like hours. He needed to get a grip on the situation and to do so reminded himself that in order to see Tripwire's downfall, he needed to be there. Dying in the middle of the station wasn't an option. 

He'd never probably be able to describe the feeling that came next, he'd try, but he'd never be able to describe the how he'd been in two places at the same time. How he was acutely aware of his frame and what was happening around him, but that he also felt numb and completely detached from reality. As if he were a spark ghost floating above his frame where he could see himself panicking below, but his corporal self was aware his ethereal self was looking down. 

Tripwire's voice snapped his ethereal self back into his body. "Scope, lets go or would you rather stay here?" As it always was, the voice was commanding and loud, easily distinguished by familiarity and fear of ignoring him. 

Scope's optics snapped up to meet his owner's, there was no way he was letting himself get left behind. Willing his frame to comply - a feat in itself - Scope launched himself forward and latched on to his owner's arm, practically cuddling it to his chest. Tripwire's optics bore holes into his helm, Scope could feel the cogs turn as Tripwire decided how to deal with his clingy mech. 

Whether it was pity or just the knowledge that it would be quicker to let Scope do it than deal with the panic, Tripwire allowed it and started walking, weaving himself between mechs and stalls. Scope's whimper was lost in the other noises, knocked and stepped on, his targeting system flashing danger from everywhere, Scope was in pain, his missing backpack a heavy phantom weight on his back.

For the first time since walking out of the Factory, Scope had no choice but to place all his trust into Tripwire. 

Shame burned in his frame as they walked. He could almost hear the other mechs in the station laughing at him, staring at his wreck of a frame and calling him a drone, sniggering at how tight he had glued himself to his owner. The voices were as clear as day in his head and they were all Tripwire's voice. 

Once, not so long ago, he'd been a proud rifle, able to fulfil his coding and protect his owner, then, little by little Tripwire had taken it all, stripping away everything until even Scope had no idea what he was supposed to be. He choked on his own thoughts, in his head the mechs were laughing again. 

Proud mech to a drone without purpose, a depressing shadow of his former self. 

In reality the mechs around him barely paid him a single glance, a mech with a modified disposable was nothing special. It was a common sight, most mechs owned one or two, either for their intended purpose or to use as errand runners or even something less savoury. A few lucky ones were kept purely as status symbols, sparked into frames designed by famous mechs, pets in frames made of the most expensive metals and inset with precious stones that glittered and sparkled. Some lived a long time compared to their disposable siblings and unlike the commoners, they lived lived of spoilt luxury. It was the datamech that reigned supreme in Iacon, by far the most common, there were places to buy them on nearly every street and unlike rifles, blasters and other weaponry, they didn't need a long drawn out registration. 

Overhead the voice on the loud-speaker spoke again, cheery and sickly sweet as before, Scope missed most of the broadcast but picked up enough to know there had been a cancellation. His only thought to that was 'good'. Other mechs should be upset too.

The crowd thinned as they neared the exit and Scope was grateful for it. Through the large arched tunnel, he could just about see the street and a little beyond that a road busy with mechs racing past in the alt modes. Just over halfway through, the sky was just visible over the skyscrapers. Like the clawed fingers on Unicron's land, the sharp buildings seemed to cut into the sky, keeping even the starlight from breaking through to the ground. It was a cage, restrictive and claustrophobic, Scope had never seen a sky so plain. Tiny and insignificant were two feelings that he was well used to, but here in Iacon, it went so far beyond that. Here he was absolutely nothing. 

The cool night air was blissful after the stifling heat of the station. Scope shivered, his fans had done little to vent the heat from his frame and the cool breeze was as uncomfortable as much as it was pleasing. 

Tripwire paused at the end of the tunnel, scanning his optics over the crowd for the mech they were meeting. Scope took the opportunity to offline his optics and turn his face into the breeze, a brief respite from the commotion as the swirling vortex of air curled around his frame in a soft caress. The panic attack was still deep seated in his frame, clinging to his spark and processor like a bad virus infection, however escaping the sea of bodies and the constant echoing noises had helped to alleviate it a little. It hadn't helped with the stress that settled in his joints and processor, giving him a raging processor ache and stiff limbs. 

The temperature change had been nice, but now he was too cold, his frame shivering so violently that it hurt. 

Home. His warm, comfortable corner. Peace away from Tripwire. Enough time to sort out his panic and put it into perspective. Enough private time to pull himself together, rein in his emotions and get ready to present himself as a vaguely functioning being. It was all the little rifle wanted, the safety and protection of the world he'd created, his walled sanctuary. 

A black veil of sadness washed over him. He'd never see his home again. All that remained of his home was in the gift from Rivet, the small vial filled with a few dirty paint chips and a crystal weed. 

It wasn't fair. 

Just when he thought he could be upset and angry, Tripwire hit him with a fresh wave of fresh wave of forced positivity that nullified his own feelings. 

Catalyst stood more than a head above the rest of the crowd and, like Tripwire, carried himself with the same arrogance and haughty attitude, looking down on the rest of the world with snobbish distaste. He wasn't as easy mech to miss, even lost in the crowd his frame was unique looking, eye-catching in an unfortunate way. Although tall, he lacked build and weight, he looked stretched to twice the height he should be. The only way he would look normal was if his frame was halved and rearranged, giving him enough bulk to look normal. He wasn't ugly in the traditional sense of the word, but he certainly wouldn't appeal to the average mech, he was something of an acquired taste with his disproportionate and thin limbs. Fragile, Scope decided, was the best way to describe him, as if an accidental knock from a passer by would put him in the medical centre for a few weeks. 

Tripwire greeted his friend with a wave and set off towards him at a trot, when Scope couldn't keep up, he brushed him off without a second thought. Scope flinched, paused and had a moment of disorientation as he was left in the crowd, then acted. He could do it, he told himself, it couldn't be that hard to weave through the crowd to where Tripwire was. There was an almost endless line of mechs between them now, Scope ducked and craned his neck as he weaved between the crowd, his optics never leaving Tripwire as he moved, light on his feet like a dancer. It was hard to catch up, frustrating in that his owner was only a few steps away and no one would stop to let him run past, but he managed it eventually and vented loudly as he hid behind his owner. Tripwire had greeted Catalyst with a grin and hug, more affectionate than Scope had ever seen him before. With a happy, light voice, Tripwire happily answered Catalyst's questions about the journey and how he'd been. 

Something in Catalyst's EMF had Scope on edge. Where his other senses had betrayed him, Scope always trusted his EMF reactions, he'd honed them well so it was possible for him to predict how he should act around Tripwire. He'd never been wrong in the past, not about that. Catalyst's EMF was inviting, too inviting, it was warm and kind on the surface but a little deeper it was cold and sharp, dangerously unpleasant, much more like Tripwire's. Scope felt the same trepidation around Catalyst that he felt around Tripwire when the jet was in one of his worst moods. In fact, Tripwire's EMF seemed downright inviting compared to the Catalyst's, a hard call to make when Tripwire's was a ticking time bomb filled with shrapnel. 

Scope stood quietly behind Tripwire for a few minutes before Catalyst registered that he was there. "So that's the rifle?" He asked, stepping to the side and looking Scope over, "doesn't look like a rifle. Looks like a...Primus, I have no idea. What is it?"

"Academy rules, I had to neutralise him," replied Tripwire with a shrug, "they have a rule for just about everything, especially disposables. It's very strict, complete overkill if you ask me. I went to get him capped, but I thought this would be better, my guess was if he looked like a rifle then security would constantly be stopping us to check he isn't loaded. At least like this he's not a threat and isn't going to get stopped often."

"He's kind of cute in a ugly, tiny way. What's it's name?" Catalyst asked, lifting Scope's chin with a finger and brushing his thumb over where Scope's lips would be if he had a proper face. 

Scope, repulsed by the touch of a mech who wasn't his owner, stepped back quickly, distrustful and nervous around the new mech with the knifestorm EFM. Hiding back behind Tripwire, he scrubbed his faceplate with the back of his hand. Catalyst was dirty and Scope was convinced he'd just been given a virus. 

"It's Scope."

Catalyst tutted, "well that's hardly original."

Tripwire sighed and shifted his weight onto his other foot, "It's a rifle, Catalyst, not a mech. He doesn't need an original, fancy name."

"Something more original than Scope would be better. If you're in a crowd of rifles and someone shouts Scope, half the rifles are going to think they're being called," Catalyst argued. 

Tripwire shook his head, "his name describes his purpose, what more do you need? It's good enough and it's better than the thousands of Triggers, Bullets, Recoils and Targets all running around, now they're unoriginal."

The senate kept a list of acceptable names for disposable units, that way they could be picked out of the registries easily. Aside from knowing how many were sparked and destroyed, there wasn't much other information needed about them. While it was useful for the senate to restrict name use, It led to the better sounding names being overused. Unique names were accepted onto the registry but it was expensive and long process, the circumstances also needed to be special, such as a family house name. 

"Well, little one," Catalyst chuckled, patting Scope on the helm, "it doesn't really describe your function any more does it."

Scope jerked back violently and growled his engine. Tripwire smacked his helm, "don't be rude." He turned his attention back onto Catalyst with an optic roll, "and does it even matter, Catalyst? His name is Scope. End of story. Now, are we going or not? It's been a long week and I need to recharge." 

"Fine, fine," Catalyst replied, exaggeratedly waving a hand to shut Tripwire up, "so, we're walking?"

"You think?" Tripwire replied, tone dripping with sarcasm, "I didn't get a transport here for fun you know."

"Oh, I bet you did, Trip. You always liked being inside a mech too big for you," Catalyst teased as they started walking, "we'll grab some highgrade when we get to campus, celebrate your arrival in style."

Scope distanced himself from Catalyst as much as he could, walking quickly on Tripwire's far side so he could keep his owner as a wall between them. He couldn't put his finger on the exact reason Catalyst made him so uncomfortable, but he did, in every way he shouldn't. Outwardly the mech seemed fine, a little touchy, but no more scary than any other stranger. No, it was something else that unnerved Scope. If he still possessed his weapons systems he'd be readying them to fire. The mech wasn't safe.

Paying no attention to the conversation - he'd stopped paying attention after Tripwire had apologised for him growling at Catalyst. Something Catalyst had laughed off, calling him cute and spirited - Scope put all his processor power into walking. It was a task that was getting harder with every step, speed walking with Tripwire was bad enough at the best of times, but Scope was in no condition for a long, fast walk, not after the surgery and the lack of pain killers in his system. The stress in his joints was becoming critical, reaching a new level of painful, every step jarred his already aching frame, sending a shot of fiery pain through tender joints. His ankles suffered worst, clicking and creaking under the strain. The more he tried not to focus on it, the more it hurt. Which of course meant he tried to ignore it more. It had become a vicious circle that he couldn't escape from until Tripwire allowed him to rest. Hopefully that was soon.

By the time they reached the campus - a sprawling maze of buildings with a web of interconnecting paths and confusing looking signs that pointed everywhere - Scope was barely able to walk. He leaned heavily on the railings when he could, taking at much weight from his feet as was possible. 

More than ever he craved his home and his comfortable corner, never again, he promised, would he take the small things for granted.

For a disposable, the Academy grounds were an unwelcoming place. Although they were quite intimidating to a normal mech as well. Huge signs painted with pictographs of various kinds of disposable mech were nailed to every doorway, all with large, red 'X's painted over them. Even Scope could understand their meaning, which he supposed was the point, treat all disposables as if they're stupid and then even the most uneducated could understand. Then there were special 'disposable only' areas, like giant outdoor holding pens for when their owners were inside the 'no disposable' buildings. 

Tripwire looked over his shoulder at Scope, "don't fall behind, disposables aren't allowed out on their own." 

Funnily enough, Scope had guessed that one for himself. He doubted there was hardly anything that he was actually allowed to do on his own, even his leaning on the railings was probably a violation of one of the rules. His vents hissed as he jogged to catch up, the pain flaring through his frame, /Sorry, Sir. I'll keep up./ 

His language use caught the attention of Catalyst. Unwanted attention that Scope tried not to react to. "I forgot that you told me he's broken, how novel. He understands Neocybex but doesn't speak it?"

Tripwire nodded, "the mech I brought him from told me that he got a botched download of Neocybex that corrupted his language centre. He said it would be too expensive to repair, so instead they just gave him a Primal upload instead. It's all he understands, his audials automatically translate everything he hears. The only words he's heard in Neocybex are the ones that can't be translated."

"So he hears the entire world speak in Primal?"

Tripwire nodded again, "yes. Although it doesn't really matter, he's a quiet thing and he knows his place. Doesn't say a word unless you direct a question or statement at him. Isn't that right, Scope?"

Scope gave a nod in reply. Struck by the sudden realisation that Tripwire was right, he'd never looked at it like that before, honestly he was happier watching the world rather than questioning it. Now he knew that he didn't ask questions first, it was going to annoy him, was it wrong to want answers? Tripwire was studying so he'd have all the answers to every question and that was supposedly a good thing.

/Yes, Sir. I know my place,/ he replied, falling back into the role of obedient slave, keeping Tripwire happy would ensure he could rest soon and wouldn't get some unwarranted punishment. 

"How quaint," Catalyst mused, "does he think he's an educated mech?"

"Primus, Catalyst," Tripwire sighed, "it's a slave mech, it's not cute or quaint, it is what it is and I don't know how it thinks. I'm seriously starting to question your taste in mechs."

"Me too. I've fragged you more than once, that's questionable taste right there."

"Ah, go slag yourself," Tripwire huffed, "and leave my mech alone while you're at it." 

Catalyst's grin grew, "but he's so sweet looking!"

Tripwire vented loudly and shook his head, choosing to ignore the comment and instead open the door into the reception building. "I hope this doesn't take long," he said as he pulled a stack of datapads from his subspace. The reception was closed, the lights behind the glass all off. Tripwire rang the bell and waited, impatient as ever he rang again a few seconds later, then a third and a fourth time before someone actually came to the window.

It was a datastick that answered, painted in a garish shade of orange and blue, "I hope that you realise you're ringing a bell when everyone is in recharge and the office is closed?" He pointed to the notice taped to the window, "opening times. I'm sure you can read what it says and I sure hope you're smart enough to work out that we're closed." 

While not impressed with having to deal with a disposable, much less one with an attitude, Tripwire wasn't about to wait until morning, like Scope, he wanted his recharge now and he wasn't prepared to wait. "I am sorry. I've just arrived here with my mech and we have no where else to go. We're tired." 

The apology sounded forced but the datamech didn't seem to mind, he held the power and he knew it, just making a normal mech apologise to him was good enough. He looked at Scope standing behind the two normals and noted that the mech was in pain. Always one to take care of his own kind, the datamech nodded, "ok, apology accepted. Do you have all your forms ready?"

Tripwire nodded and handed them all over. The process took ten minutes at most, mostly it involved cross checking rooms and application forms. Scope's clearance was also checked and double checked. 

"No, I'm afraid there is a problem with the certificate of neutralisation," the datamech - named Cobalt, after the building he worked in - lied, intending instead to get Scope to a medic, "you'll need to take him to one of the Academy medics to be properly cleared." 

Tripwire wasn't happy about that and tried to argue that Scope wasn't even a rifle any more so how could he pose a threat? Cobalt stood firm and made the appointment, demanding Tripwire stick to it. Tripwire growled but gave up fighting it, the appointment was for late in the day and he'd have enough time to recharge. Still, he was eager to get the clearance, once Scope had it, he could start making some credits. 

As a long term investment, Scope was going to be a good one. No student liked to clean and Scope was good at it, renting Scope out as a cleaner was one of the best ideas Tripwire had ever had. Whether he earned actual money or trades, it didn't matter, Tripwire would be happy to take it all and he wouldn't need to worry about credits for energon or equipment.

Cobalt handed all the files back to Tripwire together with a door code and a set of instructions on how to change it, "have a good night and don't come back. I want a good night too."

Tripwire bit his tongue, fighting was pointless when somewhere on the eighth floor of Cobalt Block his berth was waiting. 

The three mechs made their way up the stairs, counting down the floors as they went. The stairwell on level eight opened out onto a long corridor, wide enough to let several mechs pass each other without a problem. Blue walls with orange doors lined either side, even numbers on the left, odd on the right. The numbers, painted in the same garish blue, were painted large on each door. 

Each residential block had its own colours and matching reception workers, affectionately called the Mascots. 

Room 815. Tripwire counted down the door numbers until he found his room and quickly keyed in his pass code. The door slid open to reveal a small, cramped space that had already been set up with Tripwire's possessions. 

Scope's first thought was that it was that it had to be a joke, maybe Catalyst playing a cruel prank on Tripwire. Somewhere there had to be a hidden door or something. Right? One small, cramped room couldn't be it. Could it? 

There had to be more. He'd never survive living right under Tripwire's feet. There were days when the old apartment had felt too small and that had two was and was ten times the size of the tiny room. 

The room consisted of a berth, a small fold down desk, a pin-board, two shelving units and a built in closet for supplies. It would be cramped for one mech, but two was going to be painful living, especially when Tripwire was in a bad mood and Scope had no where to escape. Scope's favourite part of the night had always been when Tripwire had gone into the other room to recharge, leaving him alone to sneak some energon for his injector and watch the fights outside. Now....now he wasn't so sure what he'd do. The window at the end of the room was blocked by the desk, automatically stopping him from mech watching ever again. 

"Don't forget our deal, Trip. I set up everything just how you wanted it," Catalyst said, leaning on the door-frame and gesturing in, "even downloaded some of your music onto a player for you. You know, real homely and stuff, help you settle in." 

Tripwire nodded and looked around, "I am not going to forget. You didn't do a bad job. Better than I expected but then I didn't expect much."

Catalyst nodded, "right then, glad you're happy. I'm going to leave you to recharge. You can pay me back later." He smiled at Scope, /until next time, little one./

Scope's spark dropped, what was that supposed to mean? 

When the door closed behind the vile mech, Scope was quick to lock it, eager to keep everyone out. Once, twice....eight times, Scope checked the door wouldn't somehow unlock in the night. He needed to recharge and not analyse what 'until next time' meant. 

Unfortunately for him, there was no place he could curl up. 

"Smaller than I expected," Tripwire muttered to himself, "not much work space."

Not much living space either, Scope almost replied. 

Tripwire had it covered, he didn't want Scope around him all the time almost as much as Scope didn't want to be there. The storage closet was a room within a room, large enough to step inside, it formed a narrow hallway between the door and the bulk of the room. It was as wide as the berth on its outside wall. Grabbing a blanket from the berth he handed it to Scope and opened the closet door, "you can recharge in here. I don't want you out here with me all the time. You're a distraction."

Scope nodded, /yes, Sir./ 

Relief. At least he still had his escape. 

Tripwire rubbed his optics tiredly, "go recharge."

/Yes, sir. Thank you, sir!/ Eagerly. Perhaps a little too eagerly, Scope entered the closet and closed the door behind him. It was dark and warm, but Scope didn't mind at all. Dropping onto his knees, he crawled under the furthest shelf and was surprised to find the area was soft, padded with thick, soft blankets shoved into a recess in the floor. He curled up and pulled Tripwire's blanket over his form. Finally being able to take the weight off his feet was blissful. 

The relief on his frame was instantaneous. Pure pleasure. He didn't even have time to think about why there was a makeshift mattress in the closet before he'd nuzzled his face into the blankets and dropped straight into a deep, much needed recharge.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Non-con in the second half of this chapter. I've divided the chapter with a page break so you can skip that half if it's not your thing.

Scope had no idea what the time was when he onlined the next morning safe in the small, dark room on the comfortable berth of folded blankets and, if he was honest with himself, he really couldn't care less. Tripwire wasn't shouting for him and the faint light spilling under the door was from one of the desk lights, not the main overhead so Scope safely assumed Tripwire was still in recharge himself. 

Silence surrounded him, loud in its absence, not a sound but the hum of his fans. The slums had always been noisy, even in the dead of night, sirens and shouting punctuated the air, laughter and fights from the gambling den. There had always been something happening somewhere to make the world feel alive, but now there was nothing and the world felt dead.

Too tired from the night before to rouse himself without orders, he stayed where he was, content to lie there until he was ordered to make an appearance. It was...nice. Pleasant. He stretched out his long legs until the met the far wall and arched his back, moaning softly as tight joints strained and relaxed, releasing the build up of pressure with a satisfying crack. Curling back into a ball and wriggling down to make a nest, Scope offlined his optics and drifted back into a light recharge. 

If Tripwire wanted him then he could call. 

Hours passed or maybe it was just minutes in the seemingly timeless little room. Throughout the day Scope woke intermittently and heard Tripwire in the main room, speaking quietly over the communication terminal or tapping away on the console keyboard. Scope paid little attention to it, snatching greedily at the chance to get a good, long recharge. 

It wasn't until much later that he finally heard his name being called and had no choice but to leave the warm, soft comfort and meet with his owner. The lights outside his den were bright, painfully so at first and he shuttered his optics a few times to adjust them to the change. 

"You have five kliks to refuel," Tripwire said, not bothering to turn from his desk to check Scope was actually listening, "then we're leaving for your appointment."

/Yes, sir,/ Scope replied and took the cube of lowgrade from the small berthside table, cradling it to his chest as he searched for his injector. After making sure it hadn't fallen behind the table or been caught under the blanket, he shifted nerviously and looked to Tripwire. Should he ask for it or was he expected to without it now? Kliks ticked by like hours as he plucked up the courage to disturb Tripwire and ask for it. Tripwire was the first to turn, uncomfortable under the optics burning into the back of his head and the heavy presence of the rifle standing in his personal space, annoyed, he turned and growled out a 'what?'

/I'm sorry, Sir, but my injector isn't here. May I have it please?/

Tripwire stood and checked the table, certain he'd placed it there. Scope took a few steps back, out of striking distance and to protect his energon being snatched away. An irritated sigh and Tripwire grabbed the box from the tip shelf and shoved it at Scope, "now hurry up, I don't want to reschedule."

Scope nodded, thanked his owner and darted back into the closet, closing the door behind him. While well practised with injecting his fuel, the darkness proved to be a harder challenge than he'd imagined, turning the simple task into an almost impossible one. Half the energon ended up on the floor and over his leg before he finally admitted defeat and cracked open the door to let a thin shaft of light in. With the crack of light, he completed his task quickly, injecting what was left of the cube and then cleaning himself up. 

A few short kliks later and they were heading out, back down the gaudy coloured halls that hadn't seemed quite so eyeseeringly bright the night before. In the main foyer, Cobalt was trying to make the residents leave by loudly reciting the 'no loitering' rule. His attempts were met with laughter and teasing, angering Cobalt enough that he tried to forcibly remove them by shoving them towards the door. One of the residents grabbed Cobalt and picked him up, carrying him out under his arm, "we're leaving, see?"

"This isn't what I meant and you know it," Cobalt shouted, kicking and squirming angrily, "put me down immediately!" More laughter from the mech. Cobalt growled, grabbing a wire in the mech's wrist and pulling on it sharply, forcing the mech to release him. He landed on the floor with a clatter but picked himself up quickly and cursed up a storm as he stomped back inside the block to find a forged mech the students would respect and listen too. 

Scope watched Cobalt in amazement and pure enjoyment, it wasn't good for Cobalt of course, but just seeing Cobalt fight back was a treat. If he could find a fraction of the confidence Cobalt had, he imagined his life could be much better than it was, but the thought of standing up to Tripwire left him cold. 

Classes were coming to a close for the day and students poured out of the teaching blocks, all heading for the communal areas to meet with friends. Although most failed to use the pathways there were still enough to make the going slow. Scope glued himself to Tripwire as they speed walked between slower mechs, cutting between groups of mechs who wouldn't move out of the way. It was noisy in the communal areas and for Scope, who usually hated crowds, he found himself at ease among the students talking about things he couldn't understand. It wasn't the mechs who calmed him, but the fact he was surrounded by disposables, every mech seemed to own one and Scope enjoyed not feeling so alone in the world. Not since leaving the factory had he seen so many disposable class in the same area and never had he seen so many different types. He'd never even guessed there were so many different frame types. Silent and obedient, the disposables followed their owners, all but invisible to masters who had become so dependant on them that they would struggle without them. 

It was sad, Scope wasn't even going to try and deny that. Hundreds, if not thousands of mechs just like him, forced to obey mechs they probably didn't even like. No rights, unvalued and easily replaced, it was a rough life, worse still if the owner was violent too. There was a small part, a part he'd never admit to having, that was glad they were here and there were mechs who understood the struggle. Who understood what it was like to be completely worthless. 

It was far busier than Scope had imagined, even after seeing the size of the campus the night before, he'd still vastly underestimated the amount of mechs who lived and studied there. To his absolute joy, no one - not even his fellow disposables - paid any attention to him or his state of frame. It gave him a chance to truly observe the world around him without worrying who was judging him and laughing at his misfortune. 

He didn't like what he saw, but the novelty of the moment wasn't lost on him and learning the other disposable frame types was fascinating.

The crowds thinned as they moved away from the main bulk of campus, away from the residential area and down a long, straight road lined with holograms on pillars. Each of the holograms depicted a different mech, important figures who'd attended the academy and gone on to become leaders in their fields, senators, scientists, explorers, medics and engineers, all mechs the academy liked to namedrop as often as possible. Scope didn't recognise any of them and the cold, unmoving holograms were creepy, staring out with cold, dead optics.

They were only about halfway down the wide road when Scope walked too close to one of the pillars, unknowingly activating a motion sensor. The hologram came to life in an instant and a disembodied voice began introducing the mech and listing his qualifications. Startled, Scope leapt away from the pillar with a cry of alarm. Tripwire who'd quickly turned to see what had happened could only laugh as Scope tripped over himself, legs tangling together as he fell flat on the floor, hitting the pavement with a yelp of indignation and pain. Behind them, more students laughed. Humiliated, Scope picked himself up with as much dignity as he could muster and tried to ignore them. 

"I never knew the drones were that scared of learning," one of the unknown students joked. 

The hologram continued it's speech, telling the tale of Quantum and why he'd earned his place on the so called Parade of Pride. 

Scope fell back into step with Tripwire, his faceplates burning with embarrassment, spark racing so fast he thought it would break out of his chest. Tripwire continued to chuckle.

The rest of the walk went without incident, although Scope was much more careful of the holograms and walked past each while giving them a death glare, daring them to try and scare him again. Next time he'd be ready. 

Coming up to the end of the Parade, the road split into two, the right fork being a direct route into Iacon centre and the left fork the back route to the medical centre. They took the left, cutting through the crystal gardens to join up with the main road to the front of the building.

The Hospital was a blot on the landscape, it's new, modern design at odds with the older style buildings surrounding it. Immaculately finished and gleaming, with a front entirely of panelled glass, the building was like looking into a giant doll's house and seeing the dolls come to life. The main entrance opened up into a large foyer with the floors cut out above it so it was possible to look right up through the glass roof and see the stars. 

Large street-lights lined the approach way and flooded the area in a yellowish, warm, 'healing' light. It was an inviting building and if built elsewhere would certainly be attractive, but among the single story administrative buildings, storage blocks and grounds-keeper's huts it was out of place and didn't look remotely like a hospital, but an office block converted to work as one. 

Scope liked it immediately as soon as he entered and smelt the clinically strong cleaning products, taking in the overuse of white and chrome that was buffed and polished to a reflective shine, void of a single speck of dust. The hospital had a team of cleaners who worked non-stop to make sure the hospital was always immaculate, they worked with military precision, treating each job like a mission. The Factory had always been the level of clean he measured his own cleaning to, but the hospital made the Factory look dirty in comparison. Scope was in his element. 

It was nothing like the student teaching hospital that Scope had imagined, even Tripwire managed to look a little impressed as they crossed the foyer to the reception desk. While Tripwire received the instructions on how to get to the right ward, Scope looked around, watching with glee as the medics and patients moved in the open space, absorbed in their own little worlds of work and pain. The first disposable class mech he saw was so clean and well cared for, that he assumed it was a minibot. It wasn't until he saw the same frame type repeated behind every red and white certified medic that he realised they too were disposables. 

His mood soured momentarily, they weren't true disposables, they were valued and they would never know what it was like to be considered a 'true' disposable. To be seen as worthless and replaceable. They lived in a gilded cage compared to lower class disposables in their rusted ones. It was all luck to be sparked into the right frame and not become one of the underclass. The medical disposables would never realise how good they had it and Scope wished he was one of them, he couldn't imagine a better place to live and work but the spotless hospital.

Scope's mood evaporated quickly when Tripwire tapped him on the shoulder and walked away, following the directions he'd memorised. Forgetting the other disposables, Scope ran after his owner, down polished hallways and past pristine kept wards where the scent of cleanser and fresh paint wafted out in clouds. 

The hospital was simple to navigate with each floor set up with a series of wards, each run by a medic and their six students. Each floor catered to a certain area of care, from the emergency and accident centre on the first floor to a fully staffed disposable clinic on the top floor. Every term the medic and students moved to a new area so that the students would get practical lessons in every area, on every frame type and hopefully every kind of injury.

Taking the lift up to the top floor, they were met by a perky, irritatingly happy disposable who welcomed them into the medbay and asked them to take a seat. 

Tripwire wasn't buying it and his posture changed to intimidate the small mech, "we're just here so a medic can sign off on Scope not being a rifle. It should only take a few kliks, stop wasting out time and bring out a proper medic. Not the ward's drone."

First Aid wasn't intimidated, at least not outwardly, the threats were often far worse and by comparison, Tripwire was almost polite. "Ratchet is just finishing up with a patient and he'll be with you as soon as he can. You can wai-"

"Is there another medic? It is a two klik job so someone has to be free, it isn't a delicate surgery, it's a signature just a signature."

First Aid shook his head and cited the policy, his finger raised as if addressing a newly sparked mech, "all certificates must be signed by a qualified medic and only after a thorough examination of the patient-" 

"Look at him," Tripwire argued, interrupting loudly, "does he look like a rifle?"

First Aid stood his ground and repeated the policy all the way through. "Ratchet will see him when he's free. Please take a seat in the waiting room and he'll be with you as soon as he can."

Tripwire wanted to respond, but First Aid was already leaving. Childishly, so not to take orders from a disposable, Tripwire remained where he was, blocking the doorway into the ward with his wingspan. First Aid turned to look, tutted as he shook his head and walked through the swinging doors into the main part of the ward. With how busy their ward was, it was only a matter of time before someone wanted to come in and Tripwire would be hit by a door. Hopefully hard enough to need his own medic.

Sadly for First Aid, it didn't happen and when he returned with Ratchet, Tripwire and Scope were still in the same position. "I'm Ratchet, I'm the medic of this ward. This is Scope I assume?"

"Yes," Tripwire answered, "so as you can see he's not a rifle and we have places to be so can you just sign him off?"

Ratchet shook his head, "that isn't how it works. Visibly he may not be a threat, but internally he could still have something that poses a danger to the Academy." 

"Like what?"

Annoyed, Ratchet frowned, "when a rifle downgrade isn't done carefully and the right parts aren't removed, a rifle can become a walking bomb with no timer. One day they just explode without warning, not a little explosion either. The last exploding rifle offlined two mechs and injured a dozen more. There is a reason you're sent to get them checked over by a professional, it's for everyone's safety."

Tripwire looked unconvinced, he'd never heard of anything like that happening before. "Really?"

"Yes, really. It's a delicate procedure that most medics make a terrible job of, especially back alley slum medics who don't have the proper training. It isn't as easy as just taking their barrel off and calling them safe. I'll run my scans and if he isn't safe then I'll make sure he is before he leaves. If he is then that's fine and I'll sign him off and you'll be gone in a few breems. Please wait in the waiting room and I'll bring you the news when I have it." 

"Is it going to take long?"

Ratchet took Scope lightly by the shoulder and handed him to First Aid. "It will take as long as it takes to do the job right."

Tripwire frowned as the swing doors closed behind Ratchet and reluctantly found himself a seat.

First Aid led Scope to an empty berth and helped him climb on to it. "Lay down and let First Aid scan you," Ratchet said, taking his spot at the side of the berth, "it isn't going to hurt." 

Scope obeyed, frame tensing as he felt Ratchet's hands on him, gently testing the welds around removed armour pieces. At the end of the berth, the six students formed a semi-circle to get a close view on Ratchet and his teaching. It made Scope more uncomfortable than he'd ever been before, their optics roamed his frame, actively looking for damaged areas and noting down the missing armour pieces. It made him feel incredibly vulnerable. 

As First Aid scanned Scope the readout appeared on the large display above the head of the berth. "I'm impressed there is no real damage," Ratchet commented quietly as he worked through the data, then looked to one of the students at the foot of the bed, "someone tell me about these readouts."

He'd barely finished asking the question before he had an answer, from a jet who stood cockily at the back, barely even glancing the screen, "fifty six point three perfect of rifle coding locked behind a safe wall to prevent frame rejection and phantom limb pains. Removal of projectile creation chamber, trigger and barrel renders the rifle useless and the addition of a relay system stops the rifle unconsciously trying to store energy for projectiles. It isn't a bad job for a slum medic." 

Ratchet bit back on a sigh, "yes, well done, Pharma. As usual you've given someone else a chance to answer just like I asked you too."

Pharma ignored everything but the compliment, remaining smug among the other students.

Scope's vents hitched quietly. Said like that it sounded so cold, it wasn't just a simple case of take the parts away, physically he was fine without them, but mentally he suffered and grieved for them. It was like taking a flier's wings, they would survive but they would grieve for the sky. 

He ignored what was said after that, deciding it was best not to listen to the upsetting way they spoke. Most of what was being said went over his head anyway, complicated names for areas of the body and medical terms that wouldn't translate into Primal for his processor to understand. 

The medical disposables were a welcome distraction. Ratchet treated First Aid with kindness and compassion, treating him the same way he treated his students, never ordering, always asking. First Aid was always eager and quick to respond, running off to collect a specialised tool or focusing his scans on a different area. It seemed to Scope that all the medics respected their disposables, not just Ratchet, none bore the marks of a recent beating and all were kept shiny and clean. So far removed from Scope's frame where the marks of his owner read like a map of his life. 

The students dispersed when Ratchet sent them off to continue with there own work, there was nothing left to learn by watching him with Scope. Every injury Scope had was one they'd seen before. A few students had their own patients to attend to, fixing minor repairs that didn't need the hand of a registered medic or checking their patients were still stable and sedated while their frames healed. Those that didn't have patients were still kept busy by the running of the ward and checking on the longer stay patients.

Scope's attention snapped back to Ratchet when he spoke, "I'm going to get First Aid to mix you up some infused energon, it will help your frame repair itself quicker. You're low on quite a few minerals." It wasn't a surprise, lowgrade barely contained enough energy in it to power a small mech and lacked almost everything a mech needed to survive for a long period of time. "Who is Tripwire's professor?"

/I don't know,/ Scope replied with a frown, pushing himself up to sit against the headboard. 

"Do you know what he's studying?"

Scope shook his head. /Science maybe, he talks about that a lot./ He had a flashback to riding the transport and trying not to listen to Tripwire's non-stop chatter about how amazing he was. /Definitely science./

The answer wasn't really a help to Ratchet, science was a board subject and there were hundreds of professors who taught a subsection of it. "Alright, I'm going to talk to Tripwire about your treatment plan. First Aid's bringing you the energon and I want you to drink it all, don't try and store half away for later." 

Ratchet patted Scope's knee and headed out to talk with Tripwire, leaving Scope with an enthusiastic and diligent First Aid who was mixing a purple powder into a cube of sparkling blue energon. 

"Here," First Aid said, handing over the now swirling purple and pink cube, "it's good for you." 

Scope took it and held it in his lap, /I don't have my injector./ 

First Aid cocked his head, "sorry, I don't speak Primal."

That wasn't a surprise and it made him feel a little superior, knowing something the shiny little medibot didn't. Scope turned to miming his problem, pointing to the cube, then fuel tank. 

"Wh...oh, you don't have your own injector? I forget that not everyone is allowed to keep theirs on them."

Scope shook his head and First Aid was gone, racing off down the medbay. What disposable was allowed to keep their injector? After seeing the medical disposables and the hundreds of datasticks on campus, Scope came to the sudden realisation that even among disposables there was a class system, imperceivable to a regular mech who paid no attention to the lower class around him. The datasticks on campus hadn't looked at him because they considered him a lesser mech, not as clever as them, a mech built for violence. That meant that First Aid's dash to help was pity and nothing more, to help out a lesser mech. 

When First Aid returned and brandished the injector, Scope snatched it and dropped to the floor, wedging himself between the wall and berth's wheels so he could inject in privacy. 

First Aid stared at the spot, tiny visor widening in surprise as he wondered what he'd done to provoke such a response. 

Almost hidden from view, Scope injected quickly, fiddling with his fuel tank's cap and pushing the nozzle deep so he wouldn't drip any by accident. The energon was rich and he could immediately feel the difference between it and his usual fuel. Packed full of minerals his frame had been unaware it was lacking, it was a rush of pleasure through his systems, not the same rush of pleasure he got from Tripwire's highgrade, but good none the less. It was more a hyper buzz instead of the intoxicating feeling of Tripwire's brand. Greedily, he injected the whole cube as quickly as he could, worried the medics would take it back from him. He even tried to scrape the last drops from the cube into his injector. 

"It's good right?" Ratchet asked softly, coming around the side of the berth after being informed that was where he'd gone into hiding. 

Scope jumped and yanked the injector free from his fuel tank, hissing softly as the nozzle was ripped from the input valve. Closing his armour, he hid the injector behind his back. 

"I'm sorry," the medic offered, "you didn't have to go down there to fuel though."

Scope stood and set the injector on the berth, covering it with the blanket to hide it from view. Tripwire had taught him that injecting was disgusting and unmentionable, no mech should ever have to see it happen. Hiding it was the only respectful thing to do. 

"It's just fuelling, Scope. There is nothing wrong with injecting, drinking or inserting capsules. It's all the same, one system is no better than another."

Scope shook his head and changed the subject, /why did you go and see my owner?/

"To tell him you weren't a danger to anyone and sign you off."

/Is he mad?/

"Why would he be mad about that?"

Scope shrugged, taking Ratchet's answer as assurance Tripwire wasn't going to be angry they'd had to come. If anything he should be happy Scope wasn't going to accidentally kill him. Although that thought was quite an enjoyable one to Scope who hadn't yet figured out he'd be offlined in the process.

"First Aid gave you the additives in the energon?"

"Of course, sir. I made it just just you ordered," piped First Aid.

Ratchet nodded, "could you make him another for later?" 

First Aid nodded and grabbed another sachet of additives, stirring them into a fresh cube. Ratchet turned his attention back onto Scope, "is there anything that you want us to look at? Are you hurting anywhere? Tripwire isn't paying for your care here, so don't worry about getting in trouble for making him pay."

Scope shook his head, /I am fine, thank you./ The offer sounded too good to be true, so he decided it probably was. His whole frame ached most of the time, but he dealt with it and it was better Tripwire didn't know that or else he could end up with a one way trip to the recycling plant. 

"Are you sure?" Ratchet asked again.

Scope nodded again, this time with more force, "I am fine. He doesn't need to replace me."

"What you say here is confidential, we won't tell him anything."

/I am fine,/ he said again and feeling cornered by the obvious trick questions, asked to be returned to Tripwire. 

Ratchet sighed, covering it with a long vent from his fans, "very well." 

Coming out from his hiding place to stand beside Ratchet, Scope took a brief moment to prepare himself for rejoining Tripwire, thanked First Aid for the energon, hid it in his subspace and then followed Ratchet out. Tripwire was waiting for him by the door with the freshly signed certificate dangling from one hand. Scope was quick to rejoin him, taking his preferred spot on Tripwire's left.

"Thank you, Doctor," Tripwire said as he took Scope by the shoulder and pushed him back gently to the door before Ratchet could waste more of their time. 

"If you have any problems with him then bring him back."

"They'll be no problems with him," Tripwire frowned, "he's healthy now, you said so yourself." 

"Don't forget his additives," Ratchet shouted as the door swung shut behind the retreating pair. 

Tripwire huffed in annoyance and led the way out of the hospital at a much brisker pace than when they had been heading towards it. 

On the way back up the Path of Pride, Scope spotted the same group of mechs that had laughed at him earlier. Instead of shying behind Tripwire, he held his head high, straightened his back and deliberately activated each hologram as he passed. With an air of superiority he'd learned from Tripwire, Scope walked through the group of students, fearless as the holograms spoke behind him. Thoroughly proving - at least to himself - that he wasn't scared of them. 

Silently amused by Scope's actions, Tripwire allowed it. Even going so far as to allow himself the smallest of smiles as the group of mechs burst into peels of laughter at the sight of Scope trying to look fearless and cocky. 

For the rest of the walk home, Scope walked tall and smug. Every inch the proud mech.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------

Scope was certain the door they were waiting at wasn't the one to their hab suite, the orange symbols painted on the scuffed blue door didn't match up with the ones he'd memorised the day before. 

"I want you to behave yourself and do what you're told. Clean up, don't make a fuss and don't break anything. Just try and be invisible, no one wants to see you doing your job," said Tripwire, banging on the door loudly. "If I hear you've been disrespectful or rude then you'll be in big trouble. Clear?"

/Yes, sir,/ Scope replied quickly. He'd be on his best behaviour if it stopped him getting punished. The question remained though, who's suite was it?

The heavy door slid open and Scope got his answer. Catalyst. Scope's entire frame ran ice cold as he took in the gangly, spider-like mech before him. There was something about Catalyst that made him feel incredibly uncomfortable and he wasn't sure what it was, but he had no desire to be around him for long. 

"Everything go ok?" Catalyst asked.

Tripwire nodded and waved the datapad, "yes, he's cleared to be here. Bring him back when he's done."

Scope's head whipped up to Tripwire so fast that he almost injured himself. Tripwire was leaving him? With Catalyst? Didn't Tripwire know Catalyst was dangerous? 

"Of course," Catalyst smiled, stepping aside to let Scope into his room. Scope didn't move and welded himself to the spot. It was a heavy push to his lower back and a growl of disapproval from Tripwire that shoved him forward, past the threshold of the room. 

He could practically feel the predator's gaze on him as he stepped past Catalyst into the cramped space. The set up wasn't much different from the room he shared with Tripwire, the same abused and chipped furniture, a scratched desk and walls so over-painted that the peeling corners were a time capsule of the years before, suddenly - seven layers back - changing from dirty cream to vibrant blue as the tower was renamed Cobalt Block and painted to match. The only real difference between the rooms was that they were a mirror image of each other and the shelving units were arranged slightly differently. If Scope could find one thing to be grateful for, it was that the room was far cleaner than he'd expected. It wouldn't take long at all to clean it and get away from Catalyst. Tripwire had warned him to do a good job, so he'd expecting his cleaning job to be almost as bad as the slum apartment the first night he'd moved in. 

"I've left you a box of cleaning equipment on the desk," Catalyst said, pointing to it as if Scope was blind. 

/Yes, sir. I'll try not to be long./ The faster the better. 

Catalyst grunted in response and moved past Scope to sat cross legged on his berth with a cube of highgrade in one had and his classes' recommended reading in the other. Although seemingly focused on his datapad, Scope still felt the scientist's burning gaze on his frame, unrelenting and hungry. Tripwire had never watched him like that, in fact, most of the time he was sure he was invisible, only being called for a task Tripwire didn't want to do himself or when his owner just wanted someone to blame something on. Tripwire would never watch him like a hungry predator ready to strike and Scope was fine with that. He'd accepted Tripwire didn't like him or reciprocate his forced love.

Under Catalyst's endless scrutiny, Scope made mistake after mistake, first spilling the cleanser and then kicking over a stack of datapads. Muttering apologies, he re-stacked the datapads and mopped up the cleanser, then got started on his actual assignment. 

For as long as he could, Scope stayed as far from Catalyst as possible, staying by the door where the wall of the storage closet jutted up enough to form a small blind-spot that just blocked Catalyst from view. It offered a rare moment of respite which Scope snatched at like a starved slum mech with a fresh cube of energon. 

"Trip said you were good, but I never expected you to be quite so thorough, you've been polishing those locks for the past breem," Catalyst said with what seemed like amusement, breaking the silence that had settled in the small room. Silence that Scope had taken some comfort in. If Catalyst wasn't talking then he was more tolerable to being in the mech's presence, it was easier to imagine this was his own room and Tripwire was the one on the berth. Catalyst's grating tone ruined that.

Scope nodded and stayed quiet, hoping that Catalyst would let the conversation drop. His plan backfired when Catalyst - a mech who hated being ignored - stood and moved closer, running his hands down Scope's back and sides. Scope jerked away, backing up the half a step so his back was against the door. It was a rare enough occasion that he welcomed Tripwire's touch and there would never be a day he welcomed a stranger's.

Catalyst only chuckled, "relax, you're far too tense for such a young thing."

/I would just like to finish my work. My owner will be wanting me back soon./ Scope made sure to punctuate that he had an owner, demanding Catalyst respect his friend's property and leave him alone. 

"No, actually. Sorry to break it to you, Scope, but you're to stay here until you've finished to my standard, Tripwire doesn't need you until classes start in a few days. You don't have to rush at all," Catalyst smiled, cold and sharp, "we have all the time in the world." 

Scope's spark almost dropped out of his chest, replaced by a feeling of his impending doom. Days with this mech? No. /Sir, if you let me finish my work then you can have your privacy back and I'll be gone./

Catalyst shrugged and dropped to sit on the edge of the berth, legs outstretched and crossed at the ankle, deliberately moving into Scope's space, "like I said, I'm in no rush and neither are you. You may get back to work though."

Venting deeply, Scope steeled himself, quickly calculating that if he worked fast - without distractions - and planned his cleaning route carefully, then a full clean to his standard would take no more than a few hours. A few hours and then he could go home, it didn't sound so bad when he put it that way. Unfortunately for him, Catalyst would make that time frame unachievable and he knew it. 

Moving away from the safety of the door, Scope focused on cleaning and tried to ignore the way Catalyst's foot stoked against his leg. Stepping to the left and the touch stopped for a moment until Catalyst shifted and started again. The room was too small for Scope to move far enough away so he resigned himself to feeling and ignoring. Stepping over Catalyst's legs, Scope dropped to his knees in front of the shelving unit lined with datapads, unaware he'd just given Catalyst exactly what he wanted. A long, thin foot quickly found the gap between his legs and toed his interface cover, grinding against the surface. Scope stiffened, his entire frame rigid and cold like it had just been pulled from a freezer. Delighted, Catalyst continued his ministrations, forever amused when the rifle tried so hard to ignore what was happening and focus on washing a dried smear of energon from the floor. 

"Did you like your berth?" Catalyst asked, bored with the silence and eager to hear if he could make Scope's voice crack.

/My berth?/ 

"The blanket mattress in the storage room. That's where you recharge isn't it?"

Scope turned his head and set down the solvent dripping cloth on the shelf, /you did that, sir?/

Catalyst nodded, "I did. Do you like it?"

/Oh. Yes, sir. Thank you. It was very comfortable./ Far more so than anything he'd had before.

Catalyst smiled, "good." 

Assuming the conversation was over, Scope grabbed his cloth again and was about to start washing down the top shelf when Catalyst spoke again. "You know, it's good manners to thank someone when they do something nice for you."

Scope didn't like the sound of that and played ignorant, /I did say thank you, Sir and I am thankful, it's the first real berth I've ever had./ 

"Saying thank you and being thankful are two different things, I can say thank you to you for cleaning, but I wouldn't mean it. You should show me you're thankful." 

/But I am thankful and I am showing you I am by doing you a good job./

"Your job is to do a good job. Trip ordered you to clean well didn't he?"

/Well, yes sir, but-/

"And you are doing what you were ordered?"

/Yes sir. I always follow his orders./

"So you doing a good job here is to keep Trip happy by following his orders?"

/...yes, sir./

"So you wouldn't like it if I told him that you were rude, refused to work and did a terrible job? You would get into a lot of trouble wouldn't you?"

Scope frowned and stood, /but, sir. I have done an excellent job!/ He looked back to the part he'd already done, clean and gleaming where he'd scrubbed the floor and skirting. 

"I know that and you know that, but Trip doesn't and if I tell him you have done a terrible job then which one of us will he believe? His friend or his slave?"

Of course Tripwire would never believe him, he already got the blame for everything that went wrong, even if it had nothing to do with him. Scope flinched away, he could imagine the punishment he'd get if Catalyst was to say he was lazy and disobedient, it would probably land him back in the medbay with the medic who asked trick questions.

"You don't want me to tell him that do you? If he hears you're a pain too many times then he'd probably cut his losses and have you recycled. Maybe buy himself a nice, obedient little datastick like he was supposed to."

Scope's shoulders sagged and he shook his head, trapped between his owner's punishment or Catalyst's blackmail, he went with Catalyst. His choice was based on one simple factor, Catalyst couldn't break him like Tripwire could and any injuries would be minor at best or else Tripwire would find out what was happening behind his back. /No, sir,/ he said softly, /please don't tell him that./

"Good, pet," the larger mech purred as he reached out and wrapped his long, thin fingers around Scope's upper arms to pull him close, manoeuvring him until he was straddling his lap. Scope felt the sharp plating digging into his thighs as the Catalyst gripped him tightly and thumbed the sensitive area in his hip joints. Scope stayed rigid, not touching or helping in any way. Like a lifeless doll. 

"You don't look like a rifle at all. In fact you look like nothing I've ever seen before," he said. Scope felt a hand leave his hip, and with a feather light touch, stroke up his back to where his barrel would have attached. "I like it. All the fun with none of the danger."

Scope growled at that and regretted it immediately as Catalyst latched onto his insecurity and dragged it out into the open. "You must really hate your owner, I bet you do. I'd be angry too if someone took my function away. Do you know what you're classified as now? Now you've been rendered completely useless? You're a Nonfunctional, better known as a junker." His smile was sharp and cold, cutting almost as deep as his words, "do you know why you're called a junker? Because you will never get your old form back, it's so expensive that it just isn't worth it. Fix you or buy the newest model on the market. I know what I'd choose."

Scope's hands turned to claws, biting into Catalyst's forearms. /I am a rifle./

"No, you're a junker. One step away from the recycle centre."

Scope growled and felt his frame warm with anger. /I am a rifle. I may not look like one or be able to transform into one, but I am still a rifle. You can call me what you like, but it doesn't make it true. I am and will always be a rifle./

Catalyst laughed, "Primus you are a spirited one, that gets my engine revving."

Furious with the allegation he wasn't a rifle, Scope let the anger surface. /And I don't hate my owner./

"Oh no, of course not," Catalyst replied, burying his face in Scope's neck and biting the main fuel line until Scope hissed in pain, "you're coded to love him and protect him. That must be awful. You want to hate him don't you? He makes you angry, all the things he's done to you and you can't do anything in retaliation for that. You have no choice but to obey and feel love you don't want." 

/I do not hate him,/ repeated Scope. 

His missing parts were still a sore subject and always would be. They weren't coming back any time soon either, Tripwire made it sound like his courses would never end, 'an eternity of study' he called it. Knowing he'd never be a rifle again until the day Tripwire graduated - if he survived that long at all - made Scope equal parts angry and sad, but Catalyst's accusations were true and he hated to agree with anything the vile mech said. 

"Has Tripwire ever fragged you?" 

/I don't know, sir,/ he replied honestly, his voice holding a slight quiver of anger. He wasn't exactly sure what fragging was, Tripwire had mentioned it in passing but it had never been directed at him. It had always been muttered at his equipment or at a mistake. Once or twice Scope had been called a 'fragging glitch' but he highly doubted that was what Catalyst meant. 

"You'd know if he had so I'm going to assume he hasn't," Catalyst purred, dropping his hand between Scope's legs to stroke his interface panel. Scope stubbornly kept it shut. "I bet you're still sealed aren't you? Trip has no idea how to play with his toys. I'd have cracked you open the night I took you home."

Trying in vain to squirm away, Scope twisted, fighting against the hand on his thigh that got tighter and tighter the more he moved. Begging to be released probably wouldn't work in his favour and he had a feeling Catalyst would enjoy that. 

"Stop fidgeting," Catalyst ordered gruffly. Scope tried to remain still and will his frame to remain unresponsive. Nimble fingers snaked under his hip plating, sliding lower until they were right between his legs. Searching for something that Scope didn't want found. Bright pain flared through Scope's sensor net as catalyst pressed on a deep hidden sensor cluster. Scope tried to pull away as he cried out in pain, but Catalyst easily kept him in place. Arching back to escape the pain Catalyst revved his engine and pressed harder on the sensitive spot. The pain only got worse the longer Catalyst pinched the sensors and the fiery agony spread to nearby clusters until his entire lower sensor net was a buzzing ache. 

"You only have to open your panel and all the pain will end." 

Scope steadfastly refused, fighting through the pain. A harder pinch and the pain flared hotter. Fans that had been fairly quiet suddenly roared into action, the vented heat trapped between their chests, heating already warm plating until it was hot to the touch. 

"Just give in, it's going to happen either way, you might even enjoy it."

Scope barely heard the words through the fog in his processor as the pain became unbearable. His legs jerked under him and he fell forward, forehead against Catalyst's chest. As promised, the pain abruptly stopped as, mortified, he heard the click of his interface panel opening followed by a dark chuckle. 

"I told you it was going to happen. In future it would save us both the effort if you just obeyed."

Gently, with false kindness, Scope was pushed back to lay on the berth. Easily controlled on his back, Catalyst grabbed his legs and forced them apart. "Primus. How lovely," he purred, voice thick with lust as he swiped his thumb over Scope's valve seal, "not a mark on you. Tell me, has Tripwire ever done this to you?"

Scope shook his head, hands balled in the bedding, faceplate burning as he tried to avert his gaze, /no, sir./

"Beautiful," Catalyst purred, pressing is thumb in the centre of the seal just hard enough to make Scope squirm, "so I am the first to see this little valve of yours? What a wonderful treat. I thought Trip would have at least broken you a little bit, he's owned you for quite a long time." Upset noises and hiccuping vents met his audials and went ignored. Scope's visible discomfort only heightened his own enjoyment. "Touch me," he ordered, "touch me like I'm your beloved, Trip."

Scope sat up slowly, closing his legs as he inched closer to Catalyst and tried desperately to get out of this and go home. He could sprint for the door, but he knew there was no way he could get all the locks open before Catalyst grabbed him and dragged him back to the berth. The punishment for that would be severe and Tripwire would be angry when Catalyst lied and told him he had been rude and lazy. Quickly running out of options - not that he'd had many to start with - Scope reached out to Catalyst, and stroked gingerly up his arms, following the curve of shoulder armour, down the thin chest and ended on the burning protoform not hidden by abdominal plating. 

Catalyst enjoyed the sensation and replied in kind, his needle-like fingers finding every sensitive nook on Scope's frame and digging in, earning the noises of distress and discomfort. "Do I disgust you so much that you won't make one happy noise today?"

It was sheer luck that stopped him answering 'yes'. A sharp finger dragged up his back, snagging on the fresh welds and drawing pained static from his vocaliser. 

Catalyst's lips curved into the briefest of smiles as he scratched the point again. Instinctively to escape the pain, Scope arched forward, his frame brushing against the larger's. Carefully, as if he was handling glass, Catalyst pulled Scope back into his lap. 

Giving up on a fight he knew he could never win, Scope went purely for damage control, becoming overly submissive and obedient, the same combination he used to placate Tripwire when he was angry. Repeatedly reminding himself that the quicker he finished, the quicker he could be gone, Scope suffered through the touches. 

He'd never liked being touched all that much, rarely did touch ever end pleasurably for him and truthfully, Catalyst was right, he had no real love for Tripwire, but at that moment he wanted nothing more than to cuddle up in his owner's lap and drink up the grunted sounds of annoyance that would undoubtedly come from the jet. Tripwire was safe and generally predictable. Catalyst was the big unknown and so far Scope felt nothing but revulsion for him.

Venting deeply, Scope reached out, biting down on the disgust he felt as his fingers met the heated plating of his captor and traced the blue biolights. Catalyst gave him no indication of what he wanted and seemed content to have Scope explore at his own pace. Scope - for his part - looked for the most sensitive areas, listening to the moans and hums so he knew where to focus. Splaying his sharp fingers out over Catalyst's chest, Scope could feel the rhythmic spark pulse just inches under his fingers and took a brief moment to enjoy the thought of how easy it would be to kill this mech. To tear out his life force and watch as Catalyst offlined clawing at his own chest. Without a doubt offlining Catalyst would get him marked as dangerous and unsafe, the penalty of which would be death. No one would ask why he'd done it. No one would care even if he shouted he'd done it to protect himself. No one would care for his story and his violent outburst would be used to villainise the rest of his kind, forcing the rules on disposable ownership to be tightened so owners would have to keep a tighter leash on their slaves. No, it wasn't worth it in the long run, but it would be satisfying to see regardless.

"Are you listening?" Catalyst asked, smacking Scope under the chin for attention.

Enjoying his thoughts of offlining Catalyst, Scope had missed everything said to him. /I'm sorry, sir. I am....overwhelmed./ With feelings of hate and death, but his admission could easily be taken as a compliment, especially by a mech who had an ego as large as Catalyst had. 

"You'll learn," Catalyst replied simply. Impatient now, he grabbed for Scope's hands, pulling them down to his interface panel. With a loud snick, the panel slid open, allowing the long, thin spike to extend between Scope's cupped hands. Venting a loud moan, Catalyst closed his hands around Scope's, encouraging him to tighten his grip around the heated length. Once the pressure was right, Catalyst moved Scope's hands to stroke his spike in a slow rhythm. "Good," he moaned, "keep that up." 

Torn between tearing the spike off and sickened by his own curiosity, Scope continued to stroke even as Catalyst's hands moved away. 

Catalyst lay back on his berth, hip hips thrusting up occasionally as he muttered commands, 'faster', 'tighter', 'touch the tip'. Settling into his own rhythm and with Catalyst moaning and arching under his hands, distracted by the pleasure, Scope took the opportunity to slide away, down his thighs to sit at his knee joints. While it didn't offer much added distance, Scope convinced himself it was better than nothing. 

Corkscrewing his hands around the warm spike, Scope listened to the moans and gasps of pleasure. Disgusting noises that made his spark run cold. Fixating his gaze on Catalyst's spike, Scope imagined it was Tripwire under him. Tripwire was a handsome mech, even he could see that, with his understated paint scheme, aesthetically pleasing frame of slender curves and sharp edges, there wasn't many mechs who could deny he was at least physically appealing, even if his stark personality left a lot to be desired. 

Imagining it was Tripwire helped a little, but not much. It still felt wrong and Catalyst bucking under him didn't help. The moans came faster and sounded more needy as Scope moved his hands faster, corkscrewing them in opposite directions.

"I want to see that valve of yours," Catalyst moaned, moving so fast that Scope barely had time to register what was happening as he was thrown face first onto the berth and his hips pulled up in the air, "I'm going to break your seal and make you scream my name, but not today, such a treat should be savoured, not wasted on a quick frag."

Scope clawed at the berth as Catalyst crawled behind him inched forward, using a knee to kick Scope's legs apart. One hand keeping the small hips in place, Catalyst used the other to thumb the seal, feeling how it yielded under his touch, but he was careful not to accidentally break through. His spiked jerked in readiness, hot and heavy against Scope's hip. Feeling vulnerable, pinned down by the larger mech, Scope tried to bite back on his sounds of distress, but one slipped past his vocals anyway, a long, upset hiccup. 

The sound pulled Catalyst from his fantasy. Growling deeply he glared at Scope and out of spite sank a claw into the soft, pliable metal just to the side of the seal he was enjoying so much. 

Scope cried out and tried to twist away. The claw sank deeper, breaking through the top layer of thin, protective metal to the sensitive protoform beneath. "Keep making those noises and I'll give you a reason to scream that you won't enjoy," he growled.

Scope silenced himself and the pain lessened, coming to a complete stop when Catalyst withdrew the claw and went back to focusing on his valve. Moving until the tip of his spike was pressed to the seal hard enough to depress it to almost breaking. "I'm so tempted just to frag you now, I've never had much patience for the things I want. The thought of keeping you like this does have its appeals though." 

Grabbing the slim hips, Catalyst flipped Scope over and pushed his legs up to his chest, completely exposing his valve. Giving his spike a few teasing strokes, Catalyst guided it to Scope's valve. Instead of thrusting into him, Catalyst aimed a little higher, thrusting between Scope's thighs so the underside of his spike slid over the seal and the small charge building on Scope's valve would activate the sensors on the underside of his spike. Lost in his own pleasure, he didn't hear Scope's whimpers of discomfort.

It wasn't what he'd originally planned for the night but Scope's thighs were tight and the charge on his spike was almost too much to bear. As his thrusts grew more erratic and desperate, losing any rhythm they'd had, Scope yelped, the grip on his legs painful. 

Scope offlined his optics, trying to imagine he was somewhere else. Somewhere nice with his ideal owner. As hard as he tried to forget, he could still see Catalyst bent over him, face twisted into sick pleasure. He could still hear the raging fans and grunting from above him and feel the slick trickle of lubricants between his thighs. 

Pulling back, Catalyst gripped his spike, curling long fingers around it's length and pumping the hot metal quickly. Vents drowning out the sound of Scope's upset, he thrust his hips forward, crying out through his overload and jerking his hips forward, spraying his transfluid over Scope's seal and thighs. "Primus," he moaned, letting go of his spike to smear the pink fluid over Scope's white thighs, "I wonder if Trip would sell you. I would like to own you." 

As soon as Catalyst's hands were off him, Scope darted away, sitting at the far end of the berth with his legs spread, uncaring his valve was on show all that mattered was getting the filthy mess off. His vents hitched in a sob as he tried to wipe the mess off with his hands but only managed to make it worse. Filthy. He was filthy and it made him feel disgusted and used. Unclean in both mind and body, he'd never been so upset. 

Cleaning himself as much as possible was all that mattered. So much so that when Catalyst wrapped a hand around his throat, he didn't register it. A rough shake and he looked up with unfocused optics. 

"Remember, Scope, this is our little secret and if you don't want Tripwire finding out that you broke my new, very expensive, equipment, then you'll keep it that way."

/But I didn't,/ Scope almost sobbed, tone quivering as his vents raced, /I did my job well./

"Yes. Well, Trip doesn't know that does he?" Catalyst replied unsympathetically, "and if I say you did, he isn't going to believe you when you say you didn't."

Scope knew that was true and had nothing to respond with. 

The berth springs popped as Catalyst bent down to pick up the long forgotten cleaning cloth and toss it into Scope's lap. "Clean yourself up, then go home."

Heavy with cleaning solvents, the cloth made short work of the stains, removing all the evidence of what had just happened and the sting of the cleanser helped him feel a little cleaner, although a bath of paint-stripping solvent wouldn't help him feel totally clean now. Wasting no time in manually snapping the cover closed, Scope was at the door, throwing open the locks as fast as he could. 

"I'll see you next week at the same time," Catalyst purred.

Scope tore the last lock open and sprinted down the corridor, praying 'next week' would never happen. Rounding the near corner, Scope looked for the door symbols that matched the ones he had memorised. Flying past doors, Scope barely registered the symbols and had to double back to see in he'd passed his room. 

His room was at the far end of the hallway, he recognised it by the long red scuff mark along the bottom of the door, rather than the number itself. He knocked quietly just in case Tripwire was recharging and waited the few kliks it took for Tripwire to open the door. "You? Where's Catalyst?"

It took all his strength not to hug Tripwire's legs and beg him not to send him back to that hateful mech. /I came alone, Sir./

Tripwpire frowned but let him in, "you shouldn't be out in the halls alone, it's against the rules." 

/I'm sorry, sir. He sent me back so I thought it was ok./

"I'll have a word with him about that. Did you do a good job?" 

/...yes, sir. We had no problems,/ he forced the lie, trying to make it sound believable. 

"Good. I'll get the full report from Catalyst tomorrow so I'll know if you're lying to me." 

/I'm not, sir. I did a good job./

Tripwire nodded and stepped away from the door, leaving Scope to do his usual lock checks. "Now that you're back, I'm going to recharge early. You may do the same." 

Scope opened the closet door, "thank you, sir. Good recharge." There could have been a grunt in reply or it could have been Tripwire huffing as he sat down. It didn't matter to Scope either way. Instead of curling up in the comfortable berth, Scope tore it up, shoving the blankets under the shelving unit by the door. 

Laying on the hard floor, he curled up into a ball. He wanted nothing from Catalyst and the bed was a nasty reminder of a raw wound. 

He didn't recharge. Couldn't, even though he desperately wanted to. Catalyst's phantom hands still roamed his frame and the filth still covered him.

He curled up tighter and tried to will them away. Silently choking back frame shaking sobs.


	9. Chapter 9

It turned out that most of the students living in Cobalt block were spoiled, rich mechs with little to no knowledge of how to properly look after themselves. At least that’s how it seemed to Scope, not that he was an expert on the subject. Countless times he asked himself what kind of mech would allow themselves to live in a dirty room? How hard was it for a mech to tidy up after themselves? It was such a simple task if done regularly, so why wait until everything was filthy and uncomfortable to live in?

Really it should have come as no surprise, considering the state of Tripwire’s flat the first night he’d been taken home. 

One good thing did come out of it. Lazy, dirty mechs were perfect for Tripwire’s newly set up business. After a glowing testimonial from Catalyst - who’d been happy to spread the word for Tripwire in exchange for more free cleaning - mechs were practically lining up to hire a cleaner. Even Tripwire had been surprised by just how good his idea had been and doubled his original prices as demand soared. No one complained, some even tipped well if Scope did a particularly good job. Tripwire had a stack of disposable income and as long as Scope kept cleaning he knew he wouldn't have to worry about credits, which put him in an exceedingly good mood.

However for Scope - who now spent most of his day on his knees, elbow deep in empty energon cartons and scrubbing at stains of indeterminate origin - it was his own personal Pit. On top of his new ‘job’, Tripwire still expected him to complete his usual set of chores. All in all it left very little time for Scope to do anything else except recharge and even then he rarely managed a full cycle. The silver lining, if there was one, was that no one had shown the same interest in him as Catalyst had. Even better was that he hadn't been sent back to Catalyst...yet. The day would come and he knew it, but he would enjoy the days it didn't.

Hard, physical work was tiresome on the strongest of mechs, but for a disposable running on minimal recharge and fuelling on cheap energon, it was torture. 

While Tripwire fuelled on fine, filtered energon brought with credits earned off Scope’s hard work, Scope was still being given lowgade, sometimes with the additives the medics had prescribed - if Tripwire remembered them. The thick, pinkish-grey sludge was cheap and low in energy content, designed to keep disposables subdued and easily controlled. 

Scope never drank it unless he had no other choice. It had only been two days but the temptation to steal better energon came back with a vengeance and he quickly fell back into old habits. Bad habits he’d definitely be punished for if he was caught. 

There was one good thing Scope liked about cleaning. As a well behaved, innocuous looking disposable, most mechs never gave him a second look and often left him alone to clean while they went to class or ran their errands. That gave Scope plenty of opportunity to collect their part filled energon cubes for his own use. 

He became an expert at judging when energon was too far gone to risk using, judging by the colour and viscosity, he could easily tell how old the cube was. Anything older than two days was dangerous, he knew that from experience, his tank had hurt for days after that and he was in no rush to repeat it. After being taught how to use his subspace by Rivet - something Tripwire still didn’t know about - storing good energon was a simple process and allowed him to collect enough during the day to fill a full cube. Then at night when Tripwire was deep in recharge, Scope would take his stolen energon out and happily fuel on it instead of his lowgrade. It took a little care to clean up after himself and cover up all the evidence but his system worked well. First he’d pour the lowgrade into the empty highgrade cube so he could present his empty lowgrade cube back to Tripwire, then filling his injector with lowgrade, squirted it into the cube so there was no highgrade left in the line. After subspacing the discarded energon it was a simple matter or throwing it away when he took the empty cubes to be recycled. 

Fair was fair and Scope considered the good energon a fair payment for all he did. Tripwire was paid in credits for doing nothing, so Scope took a little something for himself, that was how having a job worked, he knew that much.

Unfortunately for Scope that was the only upside to an otherwise joyless task.

The small, ex-rifle had only been doing his cleaning job for five days and even with so little time the smell of cleaning fluids and polish followed him around like a cheap perfume. For a while it had been a novel experience, he had smelt so clean that it was calming to his senses, but after a few days, the smell was a prison, a constant reminder of his demeaning work.

The heavy use of chemicals also made the joints in his hands ache and tingle constantly.

It was late when Scope returned home to Tripwire, knocking lightly on the metal door to announce himself. Tripwire left him waiting for a few minutes and grunted when Scope said a quiet ‘thank you’ and slipped inside. Scope could almost hear his blanket calling his name, offering the sweet promise of a few hours of good, deep recharge, but that would have to wait until after the pleasantries. 

/I’m sorry I’m late, Sir, Polaris-/

“It doesn’t matter,” Tripwire interrupted, “I trust you finished the job to his satisfaction?”

/Yes, Sir, I did./

“Good, he can pay me a bonus for keeping you so long. Now fuel up, I want to recharge early tonight. Tomorrow is the start of my classes and I don’t want to start by being late.” Scope nodded in response.

Tripwire shifted his weight onto his left leg and gestured to the low table next to the berth, “I brought you a thicker blanket.” He didn’t explain why. There was nothing that would ever make him admit that he had brought a gift for his disposable.

Scope reached out and touched it, running his fingers over the packaging as his mind reeled with questions he didn’t dare ask. Just when he thought he had Tripwire sussed and marked as a sparkless aft, he went and did something nice, throwing a wrench into how much Scope could hate him. Slowly Scope turned to his owner, clutching the package to his chest, /thank you, Sir!/

“It’s fine,” Tripwire said dismissively, “now take your energon and go recharge. We’re going out early.”

/Yes. Ok. Thank you, Sir./ He grabbed the energon and all but skipped into his storage room. 

Carefully, as if to savour the moment, Scope unwrapped the blanket and unfolded it layer by layer. It was far larger than he first imagined, being double his height and just as wide, thick and soft too, perfect for turning into a kind of sleeping bag. Using half as a mattress, he could pull the rest over him to create a cocoon of warmth and softness. 

He must have been doing something right, very right, because even his energon was a higher grade than his usual. It wasn’t highgrade by any standard, but it packed a kick and Scope was happy to forgo his stolen energon to refuel on Tripwire’s. 

When he was done, he curled up in the blanket, burying his face in the thick, fluffy, thermal material.

Finally things seemed like they were looking up. Working wasn’t so bad now he knew he was appreciated. Even if it was only a little bit.

\---------

True to his word, Tripwire was up early and the morning was a whirr of activity. Once, twice, four times Tripwire checked he had the right equipment and datapads for the class. Eager to make a good first impression, he left nothing to chance, even checking the datapads again after giving them to Scope to carry. 

Scope watched it all with fascination, he’d never seen Tripwire flustered and it made for abstract viewing. If he didn’t know how important it was, he would have found it amusing.

For the most part Scope kept out of the way, only making himself known when Tripwire wanted something. The excitement was contagious, a bubbling feeling of trepidation and nervousness that reminded him of going to the shooting range for the first time. 

Only it wasn't the shooting range they were going to when they left together and headed out to the science block - Scope carrying an armful of datapads tight to his chest and Tripwire constantly looking behind him to check Scope wasn’t lost. The walk wasn’t a long one, the science building was fairly close to the dorm rooms, but Tripwire still set a brisk pace that had Scope jogging to keep up. 

Like the medical centre, the science building was a flashy glass structure surrounded by smaller, older buildings used for storage of old class equipment. Likewise the main building also had the sterile smell of cleaning products, but under that were a whole host of new smells Scope couldn’t place. It wasn’t an unpleasant experience but it didn’t smell entirely safe either.

The layout was simple, far more so than its sister building, small classrooms and labs on the lower levels, with a large auditorium at the back. Tripwire followed the signs painted onto the walls and found the auditorium entrance with ease. 

Coming through the double swing doors, Scope followed Tripwire into a large room with stairs leading down to different levels and a stage area at the bottom with a large screen and smaller console beside it. The stairs branched off to many levels, each staggered so every student had a good view of the professor. At each level was a long bench and desk, ample room for each mech to work comfortably. Inbuilt in the desks were small screens, spaced evenly so no one would need to share, they showed the equations and formulas like the big screen at the front, but were easier to use for quick copying and proved to be more accurate in the long run. 

There were only a few mechs in the hall, scattered around in no particular order. It was still early and unlike Tripwire, most mechs didn’t want to have to wait half an hour or more for the class to start. 

Tripwire didn’t move from the doorway, he surveyed the hall, searching out the perfect spot to claim as his own. He finally settled on a spot half way down, over to the far left where the benches were slightly larger and his wings wouldn’t end up being knocked around by mechs trying to pass by. 

“I want you on your best behaviour, Scope. Sit quiet and don’t say a word.”

Scope took his seat when Tripwire nudged him in, /yes, Sir, I won’t say a word./

It was exciting, maybe, just maybe, he’d be able to learn something while he was there and that would make Tripwire like him more. Science couldn’t be that hard, could it?

The auditorium filled up slowly and quiet chatter started to echo around the vacuous space. Scope waited, patient as always, kicking his feet under the bench, hands on his knees. Curiously, he watched the other disposable class mechs silently funnel down the steps to the front of the room and into a door at the back of the stage. That kept his interest for a while, why were they all going there? Tripwire had paid it no attention so Scope did his best to put it out of his mind. 

It was ten minutes after the disposables entered the office that the door opened again and a red mech walked out, crossing the stage in a two long steps. “Be seated and settle down,” he instructed, giving the students a few seconds to quieten down and turn their attention to him. “Please now place your right servo on the screen in your desk and your attendance will be read and noted.” 

The attendance sheet showing on the large screen behind the professor automatically turned names green if their implanted ID chips were read. Other names turned red, indicating the missing students. Perceptor shook his head as he looked at them, that was not a good way to start the class. He’d deal with them later. “As some of you know, I am Perceptor and for those of you who haven’t yet met me, I am the head of the science department. I will be teaching your theoretical classes, your practicals will be taught in smaller groups. After class you may come and see me to learn of your assigned classroom and teacher. Are there any questions?”

The room stayed silent. 

Perceptor looked around, offering everyone fair chance to speak their minds. “Good, moving on then. I see the new students have finally joined the class, so I’ll give you all a quick recap of the rules. I expect the rules to be obeyed at all times, with no exceptions. Firstly, no energon or treats at all in this hall, all consumables are to be eaten outside in the assigned mess hall. Secondly, no recharging through lessons or sneaking out after you’ve signed the attendance sheet, anyone who does try that will be writing a ten thousand word essay on proper classroom etiquette. Thirdly, no datamechs. Period. I will not have these classes recorded so you can watch them later, I consider that cheating, the notes you take yourselves are the notes you’ll use. Your disposables can wait in my office whilst class is in session and you can have them back afterwards.”

Scope drowned out Perceptor’s voice after hearing that. His tank churned, upset. He’d had so much hope that he’d finally learn something and now it had been ripped away. He slid down on the bench until he could barely see over the desk, hiding himself from view. Tripwire never moved, Scope wasn’t a datamech afterall. 

As Perceptor finished the rules and the class turned towards actual learning, Scope wriggled his way back up the bench to get a better view of the board. As a mech who couldn’t even read, the calculations on the screen were nothing but a wiggly mess of lines. Still it was interesting to hear what was being said and he was still desperate to learn something. Anything. 

At least he had been until Perceptor caught him.

“No, absolutely not,” the professor said loudly, pointing the board stylus towards Tripwire so there would be no confusion about who he was addressing, “your datamech has no place in my classroom.”

Tripwire looked between Perceptor and Scope, then back to Perceptor, playing ignorant, “Professor, he has no recording capabilities, he was a rifle, not a datastick.”

A flash of something over Perceptor’s faceplates left Scope incredibly uncomfortable, pity? Sadness? Disgust? Scope couldn’t see it clearly from so far away and he wasn’t sure he wanted to identify it anyway. 

“I don’t care what he was,” Perceptor replied, his tone leaving no room for argument, “you are not exempt from the rules. Send him down here to wait in my office or leave and take him with you. I teach paying students and he is not a paying student.”

Tripwire moved as if to argue against that decision but thought better of it and roughly pushed Scope off the bench and out onto the stairs. “Off you go. Go and wait where you were told and don’t cause any trouble.” 

Scope stood, momentarily frozen to the spot. A hundred pairs of optics watched his every move and Scope could almost feel them burning into his back. 

“Get going,” Tripwire growled, waving his hand in a dismissive ‘get lost’ gesture.

The sound of Tripwire’s voice snapped Scope back to his senses and like a newborn gazelle struggled to control his legs as he darted down the stairs and over the staged area to the large door behind the screen. Perceptor was behind him, tapping the passcode into the door controls. 

Scope rooted himself to the spot as a million possibilities flooded his processor. What was on the other side of the door? What horror would greet him? With a click and a whirr the door slid open and with a gentle hand on the back, Scope was ushered inside.

There weren’t enforcers waiting to arrest him on the other side. Nor did the door open to reveal a neverending pit in the ground where he would have spent eternity freefalling through nothingness. There wasn’t even a small, dark closet with a sparkeater waiting to devour him. 

Perceptor’s office was decidedly normal. 

The office was configured in a large L shape, with a short hallway that turned to the right after a few meters, opening up into a large area with comfortable seating. Past the seating was a large, neat desk, a computer terminal and shelves lined with datapads, jars of different colour liquids and interesting looking crystals and trinkets from all over cybertron. On the walls, framed with care were the various awards and qualifications owned by Perceptor. 

The most surprising thing to Scope - who stood staring at the room like he’d entered the Well of all Sparks and found a strange form of heaven - was on the table between the two comfortable chairs. Energon, good energon, and injectors. A small crowd of datamechs had circled around it, taking turns with the injectors to fuel up. Others were chatting excitedly, curled up on the comfortable seats like they owned them. 

Scope stared disbelievingly. 

His presence didn’t go unnoticed and he was greeted with cheerful voices and excitable introductions. Overwelmed, Scope tried to be responsive but his processor was blank, his words lost. What was going on? 

“Scope, right?” A familiar voice asked, “I remember you.”

Snapping himself from his daze, Scope looked for the speaker among the other mechs, a hard task when no one had a mouth. /You do?/ He asked, hoping the speaker would make themselves known.

“Of course, I remember all my patients!” First Aid laughed, stepping away from the table and squeezing out from between two datasticks to greet Scope properly. “I’m First Aid, remember? I treated you with Ratchet when your keeper brought you in.” 

/I remember./ Scope hadn’t trusted him then and he didn’t trust him now. 

“Has your keeper been giving you the additives he was given?” 

Scope cocked his head, /what does that matter?/

First Aid pinched what would have been the bridge of his nose if his face wasn’t a mask, a habit picked up from Ratchet. “You aren’t going to get better if your don’t take your medicine.”

/My owner gives them to me when he remembers, he’s busy, I don’t blame him for forgetting. I am not as important as his work./

“Sure, that’s what they want you to think!” A black and yellow datamech said, turning to join in the conversation, eager to share his conspiracy theory. “They want you to think we’re worthless, but we can’t be worthless when They place value on us. We’re valued for what we can do that they can’t, we can remember everything about everything, we’re the holders of more knowledge that they can ever imagine. We’re datamechs and They wouldn’t buy us and keep us if we weren’t valuable.” 

/I’m not a datastick, I’m a rifle./

The black and yellow looked him over critically then snorted a laugh, “we’ll then, I guess in your case you aren’t valuable.”

“Record!” A third mech chastised in disbelief, "you can't say that!"

Record shrugged, “it’s true, you can energon coat it all you want, but he didn’t even register to me as a rifle so what use is he? He’s more defective than Playback and Playback still thinks he was Primus in his last life.”

First Aid stepped between the three of them and shoved Record away, “stop it, Record. Don’t be mean to Playback or Scope or anyone else.”

Scope wasn’t happy about being called defective and would have said something about it if he didn’t feel a hand on his arm, pulling his attention back to First Aid.

“Ignore Record, his vocaliser works before his processor sometimes. It’s a factory defect,” the medical scanner said, “come and have some energon. It’s the good stuff, packed full of the additives your keeper ‘forgets’ to give you.”

Scope pulled his arm away and stepped back, /I don’t understand. What is all this?/ Their owners were only a room away, they could get in trouble.

“Oh, my turn!” One of the datamechs said excitedly. Pushing his way from the back of the room to enthusiastically shake Scope’s hand, “my designation is Zoom and I’ll be your genius narrator today.”

Zoom looked fairly well kept compared to the others in the room, although his paint was scuffed and his plating dented, some care had gone into getting him repaired. Small and red, he bounced on his toes as he spoke, throwing his hands around in exaggerated gestures, as if it would help get his point across. Scope looked between him and the others who were still watching him with interest. 

“Ok, so every good story starts at the beginning,” Zoom said, pulling Scope to one of the soft, comfortable seats and sitting him down. “You’ll like the Professor, he acts mean in front of the students because he has to, but in private he’s super nice. He just acts cruel to us so all the students think he doesn't care and then he can send us in here and get us away from our owners for a while.” 

/Why does he want us away from our owners? We’re supposed to stay with them./ It was going to take more than that to convince him Perceptor was a decent mech.

Zoom shook his head in an emphatic ‘no’, “Perceptor says we need a break, a little ‘us’ time so we can rest for a little while. So a few terms ago, he started a ‘no disposables in the class’ rule so that he had a reason just to send us all into his office. He makes sure we have good energon and Ratchet sends First Aid once a week to help us if we need some repairs.”

Scope cocked his head, confusion clear, /but why does he care? We don’t belong to him./

“Well some mechs are good and they want to help us. They don’t think we deserve to be treated like slaves just because of our frame type. There’s actually more mechs than just Perceptor and Ratchet. There’s a whole underground network here at the Academy. They call themselves CaEV mechs. Care and Energon Volunteers, they’ve taken it on themselves to take care of mechs who can’t take care of themselves.”

“Ratchet and Wheeljack started it five terms ago,” First Aid said proudly. “It started with just a few CaEVs but now there are over thirty, all across the campus. There would be more but they have to be really careful about who they recruit, just one wrong mech and they all get arrested for helping us. So you have to keep it a secret or they're all going to get into trouble.”

Scope looked down as a cube of energon was thrust into his hands along with an injector. “Fuel up, don’t let it go to waste. There’s plenty more if you want it.” 

Scope didn’t remember the new datastick’s name but thanked him anyway and turned back to Zoom, /so you’re telling me there’s a load of strange mechs who care about us, buy us energon and give us free care? Why? What do they get out of it?/

“They get to know they made a difference and that because of them, there are a few dozen disposable class who aren’t recharging on bad fuel or worse going hungry,” First Aid answered, “they just want to help.”

To Scope it sounded ridiculous. 

“I know what you’re thinking,” Zoom said, looking around the room at the other datamechs, “we all thought the same thing when we first heard it and we all asked why they were helping us, but it’s true! There are good mechs here who want to help us D-class, they go out of their way to make sure we’re looked after. When I got in trouble with campus security for being out alone, it was the engineering professor who saw and claimed he’d accidentally left me behind. He stopped me getting locked in lost property all night. You just have to find the good mechs and trust me, they are here.”

Record nodded, “I accidentally broke a datapad my owner needed for Perceptor’s class, so I told Perceptor what happened and he gave me a new one I could replace it with. My owner never found out what happened and I didn’t get into trouble. He really saved my aft.”

Scope listened, praying it was true but expecting it to be nothing more than a cruel hoax. /What do they want in return? The last mech to give me something used it as blackmail to get things from me./

“No way, that’s not what the CaEV mechs are like, they don’t help to blackmail mechs later! They help because it’s the right thing to do and it makes them happy to know they made a difference,” Zoom said, “all they ask is that you keep this quiet. They don’t want to get into trouble, just like we don’t.”

“That and that we clean up after ourselves, just in case one of the students follows him in after class,” Record said, “he doesn’t want them to see the energon and datapads.”

/Ok. Lets say I believe you and this is all being done out of the kindness of their sparks. How does it work?/

Zoom leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and interlocking his fingers under his chin, “we get a short period of time before class starts where we are in here alone with Perceptor, we get to tell him if we need anything or if anything is troubling us. Then he does what he can to help. Sometimes it takes a while, I mean, it all has to happen under the noses of a senate run Academy, so everyone has to be a little careful to remain unsuspicious.”

/So if I told the Profes-/

“Perceptor,” Zoom said, “he doesn’t like us calling him professor because he isn’t our teacher.”

/Right...so if I told Perceptor that I wanted to learn to read, he’d find-/

Scope scowled at Record who barked a cold laugh. “You can’t read?” Record asked, “you really are useless. What good is a mech who can’t remember anything important and can’t read to help with the homework?”

Zoom stood and roughly shoved Record away, “stop being an aft, ‘Cord.” He turned to Scope and shook his head, “we’re really sorry about Record, he’s not usually like this. His owner just won the Nebula award for most promising junior scientist and Record’s ego has exploded. Now he thinks he’s too amazing for everyone. He's convinced Solarflare only won because of him.”

"He DID only win because of me! You have no idea how disorganised he is. He can't find anything without help," Record explained, "I am the one who helped him prove how smart he was, without me he would have failed miserably."

Scope just fiddled with the injector and stood, /it’s ok. I understand, I’m not like you, I’m not smart, I can’t record everything that will ever happen, I can’t shoot any more, I can’t read or talk normal or help out my owner when he gets stuck on hard homework. So I guess you're right, I am pretty useless./ His tone was bitter and cold, like a scalpel ready to cut into a patient. He excused himself and found a quiet corner behind Perceptor’s desk where he could refuel in private. 

Zoom turned on Record, pointing a stern finger at him and whispering in a harsh growl, a vague effort to keep Scope from hearing them chastise Record. Scope heard it all regardless. “What’s your problem? We’re all in this together. Every d-class mech from projectors to rifles. We’re all considered worthless and we’re all struggling to survive at it is. Why are you making it worse? All we have is each other and we need to stand together. What if you had your function stolen away and someone called you useless?” 

Around so many smart mechs who all served their purpose, Scope couldn’t help but feel inferior. Record’s words were true and somehow that made it worse. Without his function, what was he? Zoom spoke nice words all strung together to make a pretty promise of unity, but how much truth was there behind them? It was an empty promise to Scope. Mechs would stab each other in the back if it meant survival, so asking for unity was an impossible task.

But, on the small chance it was true and there were good mechs around who wanted to look after them, what was the point? Helping a few wasn’t really helping. There were thousands of disposables who needed help and most would never get it. Looking after a few was fine, but it was nothing more than a nice gesture at best. Ultimately it was completely pointless, like putting a plaster on a rifle shot. The damage was still there, it was just hidden. 

Scope sat quietly, thinking about what he’d just been told. He had so many questions but most were answered with the same word; trust. In order the believe there were good mechs in the world he needed to trust in them. Being told a mech was nice was fine and Perceptor’s show of energon and entertainment was a nice one, but that’s all it was, a show. After what had happened with Catalyst, Scope didn’t trust anyone not to blackmail him into something. He’d give it time, he decided, and see if Perceptor was half the mech the datamechs said he was. It it proved to be true then that was going to be a pleasant surprise, but if it turned out to be a lie then Scope wouldn’t be disappointed.

Scope had almost finished his energon when the alarm sounded from the desk, shattering the mood with loud beeping to signal their time was up. Scope jumped, knocking the last quarter of his cube over the floor. In a panic he jumped up, away from the energon puddling towards him. 

“Alright, lets clear up, the lesson will be over in ten minutes,” an older model said as he switched the alarm off and reached into the desk to grab a cloth and some solvent to wipe down the table.

The mechs who had been around for long enough to know the drill, set about their assigned tasks, working like a well oiled machine to speedily clear away all evidence. A few mechs crushed down the empty energon containers down and stashed them in a low storage cupboard for Perceptor to throw away later. Others cleaned off the chairs and wiped down all trace of mess. 

Scope mopped at his spilled energon and tossed the soggy rag in the trash. Zoom collected the injectors and washed them out, putting them away in their boxes. 

It only took a few minutes for the entire room to shine and smell like fresh cleaning products. After that mechs quickly checked themselves over for energon drips and then sat against the far wall. 

Scope followed their lead and slid down the wall, his knees up to his chest. /This is how it is all the time?/

Zoom leaned forward and looked down the line to meet Scope’s gaze, “pretty good isn’t it?”

Scope nodded, he had to agree, it was nice to get away from Tripwire and talk to ‘friends’. Even if he did feel like he stuck out like a sore thumb. 

“Just remember,” Zoom said, “tell no one. You have to keep this a secret.”

With a nod, Scope agreed. The amount of trust they had shown him was remarkable, there was nothing stopping him from walking out and telling Tripwire exactly what happened. Except he wouldn’t. Trust worked both ways and the datasticks had already trusted him by sharing so much information, so in an act of good faith and respect, Scope would keep the secret.

A comfortable silence filled the room as they waited patiently for Perceptor to call for them. It was just before the ten minute mark was up that Perceptor walked in, greeting the line of disposables with a soft smile. His optics stopped on Scope, “I apologise for dragging you out in front of the class, but I assumed you would be happier in here and I don’t want your keeper thinking it’s acceptable to hide you.”

Scope cocked his head in disbelief, a normal mech was apologising to him? That had never happened before. What did he do? How should he react? /I don’t mind, Sir. Thank you though, I did like it here./

“I’m glad I could help. Now all of you had best be going, don’t get into trouble. We’ll talk more tomorrow.”

Tomorrow? Scope had been unaware how often Tripwire’s classes were but he hadn’t assumed they were everyday. 

With groans and sighs, everyone stood, said their goodbyes and left to join their owners. Only First Aid stayed behind, staying behind with Perceptor who would take him back to Ratchet later in the day. 

Scope exited and looked around briefly for Tripwire, spotting him talking to a white and silver mech, he ran up the stairs to stand at his side. Tripwire handed him the stack of datapads and without a word, started walking. Scope fell into line, following Tripwire out into the hall. 

“Did anything happen in that office I should know about?” 

/Happen?/ Scope shook his head, /no, Sir, we were all told to sit against the back wall and keep our hands to ourselves. We had to stay quiet./

That seemed to ease Tripwire, whether it was knowing that Scope didn’t get into trouble or that Perceptor wasn’t using him without permission, Scope didn’t know and really it didn’t matter.

Because, now, he had the best secret in the world and for once, he knew something Tripwire didn’t.


	10. Chapter 10

Unusually, Tripwire was awake first again the next morning, loudly banging around under his berth in search of a specific box of datapads. Catalyst had done a good job setting the room up, but Tripwire had more datapads than shelf space, so the least used were packed into boxes and hidden away wherever there was room. The solution was the most practical, but highly irritating when looking for one datapad among hundreds. Tripwire muttered as he worked, tossing unwanted datapads on the berth. Not finding what he wanted, he sat back on his heels and growled through his fingers, "where is that workpad?"

Scope could hear his owner clearly, the thin walls of the storage closet were far from soundproof and Tripwire had never been a quiet mech. He should get up and help, he knew that, or at least offer to help. Not that he would be much use. Tripwire would most likely end up shouting at him for getting in the way. Feigning deep recharge and rebelling against his 'must help' coding, the tired rifle wrapped himself up tighter and buried himself in the soft warmth of the gifted blanket. Silently protesting another early start. 

A few more minutes couldn’t hurt.

Only it wasn’t a few more minutes. Without even realising it, Scope had drifted back into recharge. His alarm call was Tripwire’s foot kicking his shin. He was awake in an instant and sat up with a start. The blanket had absorbed most of the blow but there was still a dull throbbing up his leg strut. /Sir?/ His voice was thick with static. 

“Get up. There’s a mess in the main room and you need to clean it up while I run and get a datapad from Catalyst. Be fast, I’m in a rush and I don’t want to come back to a mess tonight.”

Alert and wary of another kick, Scope nodded, sliding back out of kicking distance to discreetly rub his shin. /Of course, Sir./ Begrudgingly he stood and quickly folded the blanket, making his own home comfortable before tackling Tripwire’s.

When Scope did venture into the main room, he was in for a shock. It looked as if a knowledge bomb had exploded, throwing datapads and science equipment around the room. Tripwire’s berth was a mountain of blankets knotted around half-hidden datapads, by the desk a storage box lay on its side, the contents littered across the floor. Scope had to tread carefully to avoid crushing anything under his feet or accidentally knocking over one of the precariously stacked towers. 

Tripwire slammed the door control panel as he left and Scope jumped, knocking one of the towers over and pushing the second over out of spite. 

Staring at the ceiling, Scope took a deep intake of air and mentally prepared himself for what seemed like the start of a painfully long day. Venting loudly, he shook his head and stretched his arms above his head, working out the kinks from recharging in a ball. Still, it wasn’t so bad, it could have been much worse; Tripwire could have sent him to get the datadpads and that would have meant seeing Catalyst alone. Scope shuddered at the thought and blocked the creepy mech from his mind. Those were bad thoughts for another day.

His task was completed with relatively ease. Having no idea how to order the datapads, Scope just stacked them neatly in the boxes and shoved them back under the berth for Tripwire to complain about later. The rest of the room was easy, make the berth, throw away any empty containers, tidy the blankets and make sure it was presentable in case guests happened to come by. Not that they ever did but it paid to be prepared.

By the time Tripwire returned, Scope had finished and was waiting by the desk. “Good. Now grab that pile of datapads and lets get going.” 

Scope did as he was asked, grabbing the pads Tripwire had indicated and holding them safely to his chest as he trotted after his owner, out of the accommodation block into the cool morning air, towards what he hoped would be an enjoyable time with the other disposables in Perceptor’s office. 

Scope wasn’t disappointed, as soon as they entered the auditorium and Tripwire had taken his seat, he was sent to the front of the room to stand with the other disposable class mechs who’d lined up by the sliding office door. 

Tripwire had made sure they arrived early - not the forty five minutes early like the day before - but early enough that the hall was already quite full. Scope looked out, surveying the world from Perceptor’s point of view. As if doing so would help him understand why Perceptor was so different. 

When the office door opened a few minutes later and the line of disposables filed in, Scope was none the wiser. If Perceptor saw anything from a different perspective then it was one he couldn't understand on his own. All he saw while looking out was a classroom of spoilt mechs who thought too much of themselves. 

The office was as clean as they’d left it the day before. No energon and injectors stacked on the table, no treats, no comfortable heating packs and first aid kits. No First Aid. Scope felt his spark drop and tried not to show how disappointed he felt that the day before had been nothing but cruel teasing. The other disposables didn’t seem concerned and Scope took some comfort in that, however small it was. 

Perceptor cut an intimidating figure sat behind the large, imposing desk at the far end of the room. Looking up, he did a quick headcount and once everyone was accounted for, closed the office door with a touch of the control pad. With the classroom safely locked outside, they had enough privacy to speak and let their guards down. “Good morning, everyone.”

Each disposable returned the hello with their own excitable greetings and crowded around the desk to talk to Perceptor. Scope didn’t, distrustful and nervous, he kept his distance, preferring to linger in the small hallway joining the office and classroom. From an recon point of view it was the ideal spot to settle in, it offered a quick getaway if things turned nasty and he could keep an eye on everything that happened in both rooms. The other disposables seemed so at ease around Perceptor as they chatted, excitedly leaning over the desk to answer his questions and ask their own. Perceptor listened and nodded, offering his advice when it was needed but otherwise kept quiet. Scope felt a pang of jealousy underneath the worry.

It seemed First Aid had indeed spoken to Perceptor after everyone had left the day before, because Perceptor’s attention soon turned to Scope. He kindly dismissed the others and beckoned his newest mech over so they could talk privately. Scope fidgeted, shifting his weight from foot to foot as he looked nervously between Perceptor and the other disposables, wishing to join in their excited chatter rather than talk to the scientist. Perceptor had been nice before, Scope couldn’t deny that, but how trustworthy was he really? Being left alone with a strange mech left his fuel running cold, but Perceptor wouldn’t try and pull a Catalyst with a room full of witnesses...would he? Catalyst had blackmailed him into obedience with such a small gesture of kindness. Perceptor had far more blackmail to use against him than Catalyst ever had, what would be the price of that? What little Scope knew of CaEV mechs was easily deniable by a forged mech of Perceptor’s standing, so blackmailing back wasn’t an option. There was no one who would believe a disposable drone over Perceptor and Scope had no physical proof to back up his story. 

Zoom noted Scope’s hesitation and took his hand, “it’s ok. I swear on my spark that nothing bad will happen to you. I know it’s hard, but you have to trust us about this.”

/I don’t have to trust anyone,/ Scope replied curtly, tearing his hand out of Zoom’s grip and crossing his arms over his chest to stop himself being grabbed again, much to the datastick’s upset. /Trusting mechs just leaves you open to being hurt easier./

Zoom’s visor dimmed, “that’s a really sad way to live.” True, he supposed, but sad none the less. His own owner was a fairly good mech, not a saint but certainly better than others he’d seen. Trusting mechs was easy for him, no one had ever given him a reason to be distrustful. 

/We’re disposables, the entire concept of that is sad./ Ignoring Zoom’s reply, Scope looked back to Perceptor who was still waiting for him to talk to him.

Perceptor didn’t push, his time before class was limited but vorns of interacting with disposables had taught him to take his time and never push. They all came around eventually and although he’d barely seen any of the interactions between Scope and Tripwire, what he had seen was blind obedience with a touch of fear. Not uncommon among the owners and their brought mechs. 

Scope crossed the room slowly, wanting the meeting over fast if it had to happen at all. He moved around the desk and stood just out of Perceptor’s reach, /good morning, Sir./ 

“It’s nice to finally have the time to talk to you, Scope,” Perceptor said gently, using a tone that Scope took an instant dislike to, “I’m sure you have a lot of questions you want answers to and I’d like to talk to you about what First Aid told me after you left yesterday, he said that you didn’t have a Neocybex language program and wanted to learn to read?” 

Scope nodded hesitantly. At least he’d been right about First Aid talking to Perceptor, but he wasn’t sure how to feel about that, it had been his big secret and First Aid had spilled it without even asking him. Wasn’t there a doctor patient confidentiality agreement or did that not apply to his class of mech?

“Is that all you want?” Perceptor asked.

What kind of question was that? If he weren’t so frightened of upsetting Perceptor and bringing the mech’s wrath on him, Scope would have listed every unattainable thing he wanted just to be difficult. He wanted the return of his function, his freedom, a voice that everyone could understand and not just the privileged elite, a soft berth in a real room, a teacher to make him smart...Catalyst’s head in a crusher. But most of all he wanted value beyond what his frame was worth. His spark wasn’t worthless, no spark was, he was sure of it, with a little help from the right mechs his could shine just as bright as a forged mech’s. It was all an unattainable dream he could never hope to achieve, but it didn’t make him want it any less.

When Scope didn’t answer, Perceptor pushed him on it, “Scope?”

/I would like to learn to read,/ he agreed quietly, /but I don’t want to get in trouble with my owner. He wouldn’t like it./

“Well I’m certainly not going to tell him, it’s your secret to keep. I see no reason he needs to find out at all. After First Aid told me you wanted to read, I had Ratchet send over some basic language packs. They’re very simple to install, just plug the connection into your cranial input and the program will do the rest. Reader has done it before so he’ll help you if you need it.” 

Scope was convinced there was a catch somewhere and he was going to find it. /I don’t have any credits, Sir, I can’t pay you and my owner would never agree to get it for me./

“I’m not asking you to buy the download, Scope. The fact is that you should have been given it when you onlined, I’ve never met a mech who doesn’t have the basic language pack pre-installed.”

Scope’s optics dimmed as he tried to remember his onlining and answer why he was given a secondary language pack instead of the primary Neocybex one. Instead, he met memories of waking alone and scared in a room full of faceless clones, remembered the pain that seared through his frame as the two factory workers stood over him and forced him back into recharge with heavy hands and harsh voices. Shuddering hard, he blocked off the memory and wrapped his arms around his chest to stop his spark racing. /I don’t know why, Sir. The factory sold me as damaged goods and said I was bad in the processor, they told my owner that it didn’t matter because a rifle doesn’t have to be smart to shoot straight./

Perceptor frowned and leaned back in his chair, “I don’t believe that’s quite correct. While my experience with rifles is minimal at best, I would imagine a rifle unable to calculate and adjust for the smallest variables before taking a shot would make for a very ineffective weapon indeed.”

Scope cocked his head to the side and shifted slightly, rocking his weight to his resting foot. Was Perceptor for real? It didn’t feel like it was possible for any mech to be like Perceptor. What kind of self respecting mech would side with a disposable over a real mech? /Thank you, Sir,/ Scope said, having decided that the only safe way out of the conversation was to just agree. If in doubt, making the real mech think they were right was never a bad choice. 

Perceptor stood and pushed his chair under his desk, leaving his desk neat and tidy “I need to get to teaching now, I’m sorry this meeting was a short one. Next time we speak, I’ll answer your questions.” Addressing all the mechs and not just Scope, he made his way to the door, “remember, today is a full day, you’re here for six hours, I don’t mind how you entertain yourselves, but don’t make too much noise. I am not explaining your impromptu party to your keepers.”

Everyone nodded and stayed quiet until the door closed after Perceptor. Scope hadn’t moved from the desk. Reaching out to pick up the medical datapad, marked out by the red and white boarder, Scope stared at it. For such a small pad it weighed a lot, both physically and mentally. Scope carried it around the desk as if it were the most important object he’d ever been given. And it was. Except it wasn’t just an object any more, it was symbolic of all his hopes and dreams. If he could learn to read and speak the common language then he could theoretically do anything. Learning to be smart would be easy once he could teach himself.

Finding a quiet corner, Scope slid down the wall under the framed certificates and pulled his knees up to his chest.

“It’s super easy,” Zoom said, inviting himself to sit beside Scope and pointing at the pad with his thumb, “you just plug it in and allow access to your deep code, you don’t have to do anything else.” Crossing his legs, he inched closer, much to Scope’s visible displeasure. “I could help if you wanted?”

/I don’t,/ then as an afterthought to politeness, /but thanks anyway./

“You’re not very friendly, is that a rifle thing? I haven’t met any other rifles so I don’t know if it’s just you or if it’s all of your kind. Oh, is it because you don’t you want to make friends in case you have to shoot them one day? I think that would be awful, imagine having to shoot your best friend through the spark because someone told you to. It’s not like you could even stop yourself doing it. Or could you? Can you choose not to fire if your keeper pulls your trigger?”

Scope stared at Zoom, annoyance radiating from his frame in thick waves, /you shouldn’t ask things like that, it’s not nice./

Zoom’s optics widened beneath his visor, “oh. Is it not? I’m really sorry then. I thought function questions were ok because they’re not personal. Like asking a datastick how he archives his information. We don’t all do it the same you know.”

/Do I look like a rifle?/ He asked sharply, offended by what felt like a personal attack.

Zoom looked him over and shook his head, “not really, no.”

/Then perhaps asking me questions about my function is not a good idea? That maybe it’s a bit of a sore subject and I’d rather not talk about it? That my being how I am is not my choice and that I don’t want to answer questions that make me remember what I'm missing?/

“Oh,” Zoom said quietly, shoulders dropping as he stared at his hands in his lap. “I am really sorry. It’s just that I’ve never met a rifle before and I like knowing things about new mechs. I didn’t mean to upset you, I like you and I’d like to be friends.”

Scope felt guilt wrap around his spark, Zoom had been nothing but nice to him and Scope was being far too harsh. Granted the questions had stung, but they weren’t asked to injure and he knew that. /I’m sorry too,/ he said quietly, the stinging edge to his tone replaced with something softer, /I don’t mean to be unfriendly, but maybe you’re right, maybe it’s a rifle thing. Maybe we’re created to be horrible so it’s easier to send us into war and no one cares when we offline. I don’t know, Zoom. To be honest I know as much as rifles as you do./

“We could learn together?” Zoom asked hopefully. 

Barely nodding, Scope agreed, /I think I’d like that./ After all, who better than to teach him how to learn than a mech who wanted to learn everything?

They lapsed into a tenuous silence after that, silently feeling each other out.

Scope soon forgot he had company at all and sat for hours staring at the datapad, debating the potential future in his hands. What could be done, no, what would be done once he had the power to teach himself. What he could learn with the help of Zoom and the others. An edge of fear still niggled at his spark, drawing some of the excitement away and transforming it into fear and anxiousness. What if Tripwire found out? Without a doubt he’d be punished. Was that risk worth it? 

So absorbed in his thoughts and rhetorical questions, Scope never realised how much time had passed. The other disposables went ignored and Zoom had left his side. When Scope did look up, he saw what he’d seen the day before, the energon and comforts of a mech who seemed to actually care for them all set out ready. A handful of the small datamechs had taken a bundle of blankets and curled up in the corner to recharge, others were playing a complicated looking game that involved moving parts over a grid system on several holographic levels. The rest were reading on the comfortable chairs. 

Slowly, Scope stood, sneaking as much as his lanky frame would allow to the table where he grabbed a cube and the injector, further distracting himself from his life-changing impending decision. Zoom watched him but said nothing, going back to his reading once Scope had retreated back into his chosen corner to fuel.

Once he’d fuelled, the mineral rich energon warming his systems, Scope again picked up the pad, this time pulling the connecting wire from its holder in the side and fingering the blunt connection. 

Was it really as easy as Perceptor had made it sound? Just plug and upload? How long would it take? Would it finish before class ended? He needed answers, the last thing he wanted was to be halfway through the download and then have to stop. /Zoom?/ He asked, looking up at the mech so absorbed in his reading.

Zoom marked his place on the pad and slid off the chair, reclaiming his previously abandoned spot by Scope’s side, “what’s wrong? Are you having second thoughts?”

Scope shook his head, he’d finally decided he was going to do it and didn’t want to start having second thoughts again. Did it still count as second thoughts if he'd thought about it a hundred times? /Does it take a long time, the upload?/ 

“It shouldn’t take too long, you still have loads of time before class ends, it’s a long day today.”

/Does it hurt?/

Zoom laughed, though there was no harshness in it, “no. It tingles a bit and it’s strange having something inside your head that you can’t control, you just have to try not to scratch it. The more you fight it, the longer it’ll take. Whenever I’ve had to have uploads, I find it best to distract yourself with something else so you don’t focus on what’s happening. Perceptor has hundreds of films on his terminal, you could watch one while you do it?”

/Films?/

Zoom managed to look astonished without any expression, “haven’t you ever seen a film? A lot of Perceptor’s are educational, but he has a few that are just for fun. They’re entertainment, mechs acting out a story. There’s all different genres too so I’m sure you’ll find something you like.”

Scope was intrigued, /that sounds strange, but I’d like to see it./ 

Zoom stood and grabbed a blanket, “come on then, I’ll set it up while you start the download.”

Scope followed, a little hesitant when Zoom climbed up to sit in Perceptor’s chair. “It’s ok,” Zoom reassured, “he doesn’t mind.”

With a little wriggling, both mechs managed to squeeze into the padded chair and get comfortable, even if it was a tight fit. The film Zoom chose was a historical remake, based on real events but twisted enough that it hardly resembled the original story much any more. Despite the inaccuracy, Zoom claimed it was one of his favourites, but Scope quickly came to realise the story mattered little to Zoom who glued his gaze to the teal blue mech who played the lead and never looked away. 

The download was as easy as Perceptor had said, once the wiring was connected, the medical pad did all the work and aside from agreeing to allow the install access to his core coding, there was nothing else for Scope to do. It wasn’t pleasant, but neither was it painful. It was an irritation, nothing more. The film did a good job at distracting him, although half an hour into it he was offended by the lack of realism when an assassination attempt on the lead character was pulled at an impossible angle that realistically would have sent the bullet ricocheting off the wall. Zoom chuckled and patted Scope’s leg, “it’s a film, my friend, it doesn’t have to be accurate. It’s just for fun.”

Scope stopped himself making any observations after that.

The first film finished with the lead character having survived death too many times for Scope’s liking. The next film was a racing one, carefully picked by Zoom so he could watch more of the teal actor. They were twenty minutes into the film when the medical pad beeped three times and closed down.

“That’s it,” Zoom said as he reached up to gently pull the connection from Scope’s cranial input, “now you’ve downloaded all the datapackets your system needs to install, your processor will do the rest. That’s the bit that takes a long time, but you won’t even know it’s happening, you’ll just suddenly be able to read.”

What an exciting prospect, /how long will it take?/

“It depends on the mech I think, I’m not too sure. I would think that by this time tomorrow it should work, but it might be longer. I know that language packs are supposed to be uploaded pre-onlining and I think it’s because they aren’t an instant use program, but that doesn’t really help answer your question. I think you’ll just have to be patient.”

Scope nodded, he could wait, even if the excitement was eating at his spark.

Through the second film, Scope struggled to concentrate. His processor was working hard around the new upload, drinking up vast amounts of memory and processing power. Focusing on anything for long was a challenge. 

By the time the alarm rang for them all to pack up and tidy the room, Scope had to actively focus on how to walk. One foot in front of the other, shift weight forward, bring back foot forward, repeat. 

“Scope, are you ok? You don’t look so good.”

/I’m fine,/ he lied to Zoom. Was it Zoom? They all looked so alike and he could barely remember his own name let alone someone else’s.

“Are you sure? I can get you some help if you need it. You shouldn’t be having problems.” 

/I’m ok, it’s like you said, it’s an itch I can’t scratch. That’s all./ An itch that was slowly turning into a blazing fire.

“Alright,” Zoom replied, unsure of what he should be doing in the situation, “if you are sure?”

Scope nodded and immediately regretted it as the room swirled around him like water down a plughole.

As before, the room was spotless when Perceptor entered to dismiss them. Scope stared at the red mech while he spoke and slowly nodded when he was addressed personally. /I am fine,/ he lied again. Hopefully, the more he said it, the more he’d start to believe it.

Perceptor frowned and before he could suggest they call for Ratchet, Scope had slipped past him and ran out to meet his owner. The rest of the disposables weren’t far behind, they needed to leave together or questions would be asked about why some were being held back.

/Did you enjoy your lesson, Sir?/ Scope asked, forcing his hands not to shake as he took the datapads on the corner of the desk. He just needed to rest, that was it. After a long recharge he’d be fine.

“Lets just go,” Tripwire said, ignoring the question. Scope could see the tiredness written over his face and obediently followed.

Tripwire didn’t walk fast and Scope was thankful for that at least, the itch in his processor was getting worse and the world around him was starting to spin and warp into something of a living nightmare. The mechs walking with them were moving too fast and talked too loud. Scope became hyper aware of everything as his hearing picked up everything from voices to far off jets flying. As he walked - lifting feet that felt as if they weighed ten times too much - Scope tried to keep his attention on Tripwire in the hope that his problem would pass on its own. Just ride it out, it isn’t so bad, he told himself. 

They were over halfway home when Scope’s worst fear became a reality. Flashbacks to his original onlining turned his fuel lines to ice. He froze, unable to move. Datapads clattered to the floor around him and Tripwire rounded on him with a harsh word sitting ready on his lips. That dissolved fast enough when Tripwire saw Scope frozen to the spot like a statue. “Scope?” He asked with what seemed like genuine concern.

Scope wanted to reply but he couldn’t, his words were lost in the haze of his mind. Warnings flashed across his internals.

_Language pack alpha…cannot fix_

_Critical failure…Retry in 3. 2. 1._

_Retry failed. Unable to load. Error 417 - system incompatible. Memory insufficient._

_Hard reset required…_

Scope fell to his knees, crushing his head between his hands as the pain erupted into an agonising cascade of system failures. Like a row of dominoes one system took out the next. His vents raged as his frame overheated. His spark pulsed so hard in his chest that Scope was almost certain he was going to pass out. He arched against the agonising pain tearing through his frame and threw his head back, screaming his pain to the sky. Like a laser scalpel to an unprotected protoform the pain cut through his frame inch by inch, whiting out his vision and hearing until there was nothing but the black abyss of unyielding agony spreading out from his processor on burning hot tendrils. 

_Reset in 3. 2. 1..._

As fast as it began, it was over and Scope fell eerily silent. Knocked into blissful deep stasis, Scope fell to the side, laying on the ground like a puppet with its strings cut, his limbs twisted under him, knotted at impossible angles. 

Tripwire had dropped to his knees as Scope screamed, whether to help or silence him didn’t matter now. A crowd had still formed, circling around them to see who was making such an interesting scene. Tripwire glared at them all and collected the datapads, handing them off to a mech he knew lived a few doors down from him. Carefully he picked up Scope next and pushed through the crowd, making a hasty visit to the Medical centre. 

Zoom saw it all and fearing the worst, silently said goodbye.


	11. Chapter 11

Ratchet liked to work late nights in the medbay with the quiet buzz of the lighting, the regular blips of spark rate monitor, the occasional hushed chatter from the overnight patients and the clink of his tools as he worked. It was familiar and relaxing, his home away from home. While the student medics left as soon as they were able, tired after their long shifts and longing for some time for themselves, Ratchet stayed, using his free time to care for disposables brought in with injuries that could have been avoided if they weren’t thought of as throw-away items. Finally alone in his workspace, it was easy for him to slip back into the role of a real medic and drop the facade of Professor. There was a simple joy in repairing mechs with his own hands and not having to explain in detail what he was doing, he enjoyed falling into a task that allowed him to use all his knowledge and skill. Knowing he was helping mechs who would otherwise go without care, probably to live in discomfort or pain.

More than once he’d considered leaving his teaching job to go and open a clinic again, close to the slums or a mining outpost where he knew he skills would be welcomed by eager mechs. As a young mech, fresh from his days as a student, back when he’d been filled with grand ideas for his future, naive to the real state of the world, he’d crafted the perfect plan with Wheeljack and opened a clinic close to Iacon’s Dead End. Hard work he’d expected and fueled by youth and compassion, he worked as many hours as he could, fixing whoever came to his clinic and asking for what they could pay instead of setting prices they could never hope to match. When the hours started to take their toll, Ratchet took an apprentice to help out around the clinic and learn easy repairs.

Shattershock had been the type of student Ratchet enjoyed teaching. A simple mech who worked hard and always gave a hundred percent, showing an eagerness and patience to learn even the most tedious lessons. Shattershock was a slum mech who had spent most of his life working in a factory, injured in a smelting accident and unable to pay the exorbitant fees to get repaired, he was forced to take a small payout and then fired. Like so many mechs, he went forgotten on the streets, begging for energon to survive. It was sheer chance that Ratchet had found him at all, having decided to take the back streets home rather than the busier main road. Wheeljack called it fate and Shattershock called it a miracle. Ratchet huffed and had told them they were both stupid. 

Between himself, Shattershock and Wheeljack, the clinic ran well. Wheeljack worked as a repair mech during the day, his wages helping to fund the clinic as well as his own need to create and build. By night, when he wasn’t elbow deep in some new invention, he crafted new tools for Ratchet or repaired machinery for the medbay. Credits were tight and their living conditions suffered, but Ratchet was happy to forgo small comforts if it meant his clinic would stay open. Helping poor mechs without the help of senate funding was a noble idea in theory, but in practice failed miserably. Once Shattershock was trained to a level where he could repair the most common injuries without help, Ratchet took a second job in the city to help bring in credits.

Things went well for a while, until the clinic caught the attention of high ranking medics in the city and Ratchet started being head hunted for a new job teaching at the Academy. It was well known in the medical community that Ratchet was a medic of no small skill, having graduated with honours at the top of his class, he’d been offered several prestigious positions within Iacon, jobs never before offered to a fresh from the Academy student. Credits would never have been a problem for them, but Ratchet had politely declined, stating his desire to be a medic for the poor mechs and not the high class. Most medics sniggered at his choices and placed bets on when the Dead End clinic would fail. When news reached them that the clinic was still running and that Ratchet had successfully trained a cold constructed mech to be a medic, the whispers started again. If Ratchet could teach a knock-off the skill needed to pass an entry level medic exam with only a half furnished medbay and poor grade tools, then what could he do with a real medbay and forged mechs? Real miracles.

At first, Ratchet refused the teaching position outright. His Dead End clinic helped the mechs who needed it, mechs with no hope of care anywhere else, who’d be laughed out of other medbays. Mechs who would offline from treatable conditions if he wasn’t there to help them. In the end it was Wheeljack who talked him into it, Shattershock had been under Ratchet’s tutelage for vorns and had become a skilled medic in his own right, with Ratchet working at the Academy, his salary alone could easily fund the clinic and more. 

It wasn’t ideal but Ratchet begrudgingly accepted. His new students were nothing like Shattershock had been, they were everything he hated about high class mechs, egotistical and bloated with self importance, not one had learnt the simple lesson of knowing they couldn’t always be rght, spoiled mechs who didn’t understand the word ‘no’, and so Ratchet took a twisted joy in bringing them crashing down into the real world. Arrogance was something he refused to tolerate. 

Being away from Wheeljack was the hardest part. Since meeting in the library as students, they had hardly spent any time apart and recharging alone was something Ratchet had come to loathe. Wheeljack had no choice to stay in their home by the slums, both for his own job and to keep an eye on Shattershock in case he needed help. The Academy was a long way from the slums so driving down after work was impossible if Ratchet wanted to recharge at all. To make up for it, they spoke every night, even if it was just to check the other was ok, although they often ended up falling into recharge in front of their consoles. 

Ratchet fondly remembered Wheeljack surprising him one afternoon at the start of term by sauntering into the medbay as he taught his older students, fresh painted and polished smart, grinning behind his mask as he announced himself as the new engineering professor. All Ratchet could do was hug him tightly and berate him for keeping the secret so long. Wheeljack just laughed.

It all felt like a lifetime ago. Things seemed simpler then but Ratchet knew that wasn’t the case. 

Ratchet shook his head, still smiling softly at the memory of Wheeljack’s enthusiastic reveal. His partner had a flare for the dramatic and enjoyed surprising Ratchet, sometimes it was as simple as a cube of warm energon when he came home or a fresh waxing when he was stressed.

Working late caused some problems, both he and Wheeljack had busy schedules that often clashed. Ratchet worked a night shift for a term a year and barely saw Wheeljack at all until it finished. After working a normal day shift, evenings were usually theirs, but even those were becoming less and less frequent with Ratchet working as the only CaEV medic. Ever the forgiving partner, Wheeljack swore blind that he didn’t mind and claimed that working late was good for getting back to his true love of inventing. It didn’t stop Ratchet feeling somewhat guilty everytime he climbed into their shared berth and Wheeljack was already deep in recharge. 

The guilt was quick to pass though, looking at Scope, kept alive only with the help of a spark regulator and an energon drip, Ratchet knew that he was needed and never questioned that Wheeljack would be waiting for him when he did finally make it home. 

A detailed check of Scope’s vitals and Ratchet knew Wheeljack would probably be recharging alone again. He’d have to think of a way to make it up to Wheeljack.

Scope had been brought in five days ago, limp and unconscious, clinging to life with an irregular spark beat and occasional twitching limbs. Tripwire had carried him from the Academy, not as fast as Ratchet would have liked but at least Scope hadn’t offlined on the way. Once Scope was laid on the medical berth, Tripwire demanded answers and ordered the students to fix whatever had gone wrong. Ratchet never thought twice about all the hours he’d have to pour into the small mech to bring him back online, whatever the problem was, the damage was severe. Tripwire had - of course - expected Scope to be fixed within the hour and hadn’t taken the news he’d be spending weeks without his credit earner well. It wasn’t the first time Ratchet had dealt with an angry owner and it wouldn’t be the last, he took Tripwire’s tantrum in his stride. Tripwire asked a lot of questions; what had happened to Scope? Why did he just collapse? Why would it take so long to fix him? Ratchet waved the questions off and simply promised to contact him when he had answers.

Tripwire left in a fury and Ratchet had set to work, pitying Scope for having to live with the mech.

It was slow, tedious work. The first night, Ratchet poured hours of care into Scope simply to stabilise him. He hadn’t made it home, sleeping in his office once he realised there wasn’t long before his shift started again. Wheeljack had visited the medbay early in the morning to check on his lover, bringing with him a few cubes of the strongest energon they kept in their apartment, well versed in caring for Ratchet after he pulled an all-nighter. 

Scope crashed twice during Ratchet’s shift, his spark weak enough to give Ratchet cause to doubt his recovery. A few hours of solid care finally stabilised him enough for Ratchet to shower, fuel and visit Wheeljack to apologise he wasn’t going to be home again. 

Ratchet made time to work on Scope throughout the day, trusting his students to deal with the minor injuries and check ups that walked through the doors and to come to him if they had a problem beyond their skill level. Ratchet hoped they wouldn’t need him, the more work he could do during the day, the higher his chance of getting home that night. His students were half way through their course and were advanced enough to work alone on standard fixes. Strained joints, torn fuel lines and dented plating were the usual needs of walk in patients and his students had treated enough injuries like those in the past to be able to do it in their sleep. 

Ratchet worked with practiced skill and precision, relying on vorns of experience to judge how far he could push Scope’s processor before he started unintentionally undoing his own work. It was a skill he couldn’t teach his students and one they hadn’t all mastered yet, that was partly the reason he’d taken Scope as his own patient. Such delicate procedures were beyond them - despite their complaints - and the delicate replacement parts needed careful installation, a task best suited to a confident touch and not the hesitant fingers of a student. 

Ratchet felt somewhat responsible. On some level, it had been his fault - the second reason he’d taken Scope as his own patient. With so many mechs on campus, taking special interest in one was almost impossible, there was no time for a medic to play favourites when there were so many mechs needing and waiting his attention. Still, as a purely medical case, Scope was more interesting than most, his use of language suggested an underlying problem that didn’t show on the basic tests he had managed to run the last time Tripwire had brought him in. Sending First Aid to run deeper scans when he saw Scope in Perceptor’s office, would have given him a better idea of what the real problem was. Then they would have known not to upload the Neocybex language pack and Scope’s breakdown would have been prevented. 

Could have, would have, should have.

In hindsight there was more he could have done to stop it from happening and seeing Scope laying like a corpse on his medical berth was a kick in the gut. A failure. 

Ratchet hated failing. He played with lives and when he failed, mechs died. He had failed Scope once in sending the medipad to Perceptor and he wasn’t about to fail again, no matter how long it took. 

There were several other overnight patients in the medbay, although none were as damaged as Scope, two were in fact quite healthy. Ratchet had kept them overnight purely to give them a quiet night away from their owners. It wasn’t much, but the two datasticks appreciated it and quietly played cards with a projector waiting for a replacement screen. Occasionally the three mechs would quietly squabble over who was really winning, Ratchet smiled softly and continued working. 

Aside from the patients, the medbay was quiet. The students had closed the ward down as they finished their shifts. Any medical emergencies were now directed to ward 4, where Weld and his students were working the night shift. Occasionally Ratchet could hear Weld shouting orders from down the corridor and dreaded the next term when he’d be dealing with the stupidity only overcharged Academy students could manage. Classes finished for the day, they drank cheap highgrade and managed to get themselves into the worst predicaments. 

Ratchet chuckled quietly, feeling Weld’s pain as the older medic shouted for someone to mop up the spilled energon in the hallway before someone slipped over. He shouldn’t laugh, it would be him soon.

Scope was a far better patient. After five days of care, Scope wasn’t critical any more, although he still hovered between being classed severe or critical. The chance he would just suddenly offline was gone, but Ratchet erred on the side of caution anyway. Left as it was the corruption in Scope’s processor would ultimately cause a critical failure, offlining him in less than an hour. Ratchet had managed to contain the problem code before Scope’s processor was completely unsalvageable, but should the dam break then there wasn’t much he could do. The long term effects were an unknown, until Scope could verbalise what he felt and remembered. The threat of permanent memory damage lingered on the horizon like a bad case of cosmic rust, Ratchet tried to ignore it, but the possibility grew each time he found a new problem to fix. The corrupted code was trapped behind a series of medical level firewalls, but the cascade failure continued to eat away at whatever it could find, destroying and scrambling important coding that would need careful rewriting. What lay inside the firewall would be too damaged to bother saving and if Ratchet hoped his predictions were right and all that was lost was only frame coding, easily replaced, unlike personality files which were unique to each mech. If it was personality files that were lost, then Scope would wake an entirely different mech. 

The sheer scale of replacing the ruined parts would take Ratchet at least a week. If Tripwire was lucky and there were no unforeseen problems, Scope might be ready to return home in a week and a half. It was much more likely that Scope would be spending weeks in the medbay, a full recovery would take much longer. Tripwire had visited the medbay once, on the second day, after that, Scope was left alone, although Ratchet fully expected another visit at some point in the next few days. Tripwire wasn’t the kind of mech who would give up easy. 

Perceptor visited more often than Tripwire. Once primarily to see Scope, bringing with him the offending medical pad for examination and information on what had happened, but he looked for updates even when he was just visiting Ratchet as a friend. He’d been by earlier in the day to collect First Aid who would be fixing the disposables in his office like he did twice a month. It was easier to sneak him in at night than risk being caught walking with him in the morning and having to answer uncomfortable questions about when and why he had stolen Ratchet’s drone worker. Ratchet had hoped the medipad would be the answer to his questions about Scope, a bad piece of command code in the upload could be to blame, although he highly doubted that, like all good medics, he kept his equipment in optimal working order. 

Ratchet had checked the medipad after Perceptor left and found nothing, confirming his suspicion the the problem lay with Scope. A deeper inspection of Scope’s processor yielded the information he’d required, so angry with the discovery, Ratchet had been so angry at the discovery that only a long walk outside in the crystal garden behind the Academy Medicentre could calm him down. 

Scope’s processor spilled out over the berth, organised so Ratchet could work in the most time efficient way. Miles of fine wiring linked all the pieces of hardware together and every inch needed to be checked and replaced if it was damaged. Burned wire casing had melted over the small welds and processor parts, causing damage in areas that hadn’t been affected by the bad code. It would all need to be carefully cleaned off or it could short circuit Scope again at a later date. The task was daunting, but Ratchet had faith that with time he could manage.

With renewed vigor, the medic set to work again, using a laser scalpel to cut out the worst of the wiring. His inbuilt finger welder soldering new wiring into place.

The task needed his full concentration and hours passed in a haze of time. He would have continued for longer, but the sound of his partner and their rescued datastick trying to unsuccessfully sneak into the medbay roused him from his task.

He sat back, venting long and hard as he stretched his back struts and rolled his shoulders to relieve the tension building there after sitting hunched over for so long. “Between the two of you, you make more noise than a marching band. If you’re trying out for special ops then I’m afraid you’ve failed,” he said to the empty room, cracking his stiff knuckles as Wheeljack peered around the room divider.

“I didn’t want to distract you if you were in the middle of something fiddly,” Wheeljack said sheepishly, “sorry.”

“Consider me thoroughly distracted,” Ratchet replied, pushing away from the berth and rolling his stool back a few feet.

“Good, PB brought you something.” With a gentle hand, Wheeljack pushed the purple and gold datamech forward. Playback looked between the two mechs then ran forward once he was sure it was safe and they were alone. 

“I brought you some energon, I think it’s just how you like it. With an oil twist?” Playback said hopefully, holding the cube out carefully so not to spill any more of it than he already had. 

Ratchet chuckled and smiled, taking the cube and setting it on the edge of the berth after taking a sip. Some of the energon had spilled down the sides and Ratchet licked his fingers clean, “thank you, PB. Did you remember it yourself?”

“No,” the datastick said quietly, rubbing hands hands together and scratching at the paint on his wrist, a nervous habit he’d picked up long before being abandoned by his previous owner. Ratchet suspected there had been a shackle welded there at some point, the memory of it so ingrained in Playback’s mind that he felt the need to relieve the phantom ache by scratching when he was upset or scared, Ratchet had no real proof of that though and ultimately it didn’t matter. 

“‘Jack reminded me, but I’ll remember next time, I promise,” the small mech looked up at Ratchet for confirmation he was at least right about that. 

“I’m sure you will,” Ratchet replied, gently reaching out to take Playback’s hand and stop the scratching. The chances of their rescued datastick remembering anything in his short term memory was slim, but Playback was a fighter. He had his good days and his bad, sometimes he couldn’t recognise Wheeljack after a few minutes apart, but on a good day he could recite complicated math problems he’d learnt with his previous owner. The damage to Playback’s processor was unrepairable, but with management, Playback was pain free and lived a happy and easy life, spending his time with Wheeljack in his classroom. One day the damage would offline him, that was inevitable, but while he was content in his life, Wheeljack and Ratchet would continue looking after him.

Playback muttered a reply, but his attention was drawn to the talking patients and their card game. With a quick look to Wheeljack to assure himself he wasn’t about to be abandoned, he trotted off to watch their game.

“I saw Percy earlier,” Wheeljack said as he dragged over a wheeled stool to sit by Ratchet, “Tripwire’s making his life difficult, subtly blaming him for Scope’s condition. It’s nothing Percy can’t handle, but he didn’t look happy about the accusations.”

“I know, I saw him too,” Ratchet sighed, “he came by earlier to take First Aid and get an update. I’ll contact Tripwire tomorrow after I’ve come up with a plausible explanation for all of this. That’ll take the pressure off of Percy.” 

“What are you going to tell him?”

A shrug and a sigh, Ratchet looked tired and worn, “I’m not sure, I’ve been trying to think of something but I’m drawing a blank. I could blame his rifle coding with little effort, it’s always temperamental when you play with it and Scope isn’t a rifle any more. Rifles are built to fire and Scope can’t do that anymore, I’ve locked off most of his rifle code, but the need to fire is still in his spark, I can’t alter that. It’s like taking all your tools away and saying you can’t invent any more, you’d still want to but you’d be powerless to do anything about it. If I use that then I can say that Scope burned himself out. I’m loathe to say that though, with what Tripwire’s done to Scope already, I don’t want to give him a reason to do something even more drastic.”

“Scope’s been stripped to almost protoform and reclassified as cogless, what’s more drastic than that? It’s not like Tripwire can strip him back any more.”

Ratchet contemplated that with a click of his tongue and sipped on his energon, his tone quiet and defeated, “maybe you’re right.”

“I usually am,” Wheeljack teased lightly, “do you know what actually caused it?” 

“Do you want me to get all medical with you now?”

The inventor grinned behind his mask, the smile reaching his optics, “you know I love it when you do that.”

Ratchet snorted, “it’s a creation fault. Whoever built his frame, cracked one of his short term memory cards and did a terrible job of trying to weld it back together instead of replacing it. It isn’t a problem for his everyday life, he’ll live a perfectly normal and long life, as long as he never tries to manually upload anything again. When you download a file through a hardwire, the information is stored on a purge card until it can be installed, then once that’s complete, the download is purged so it doesn’t get mixed in with the next download. The language pack he downloaded from my medipad was too big for his purge card to hold so it uploaded the rest onto his permanent memory which is what caused the crash.”

“So in simple terms, it’s like pouring too much energon into a container and it all spills out and makes a mess?”

“Yes, that’s basically it,” Ratchet nodded, “only it didn’t make a mess, it started a metaphorical fire. If his purge memory was working properly then a download too big to handle would be ruled a danger and instantly purged, but he has no safety shutdown anymore. I can only think that the factory he came from disabled it so they could get him to take the Primal upload in full. It was dangerous and extremely stupid, but then they’ve never cared about their mech’s welfare. All of this could have been avoided if they’d just replaced his purge card and uploaded new safety protocols when they realised it was broken. Instead they try and save a few credits with a terrible repair job and Scope suffers a full cascade shutdown that almost offlines him.”

Wheeljack shook his head, the treatment of the so called disposable class needed regulation and mechs had called for it in the past, and it always it fell on deaf ears or the mechs calling for it vanished overnight. Profit was what mattered to the mechs in power, as long as they continued to get back handed payouts, the corruption would continue. “So why did the Primal upload work where the Neocybex couldn’t?”

“It’s a much smaller upload, Primal’s a simpler language and so the upload size is about half of what Neocybex is. It still would have hurt him though, I can’t imagine being forced an upload that bypasses my security systems.” Ratchet sounded angry and rightfully so. While the reason he’d started the CaEV mechs was after seeing Playback’s suffering, it for for mechs like Scope that he continued it. Mechs who couldn’t help themselves and lived lives of abuse and hardship. As a medic it pained him to see, as it should any mech with a spark, there didn’t seem to be many of those though.

“Can’t you just say that to Tripwire, minus the upload part? Just say it was a ticking time bomb waiting to go off.”

Ratchet nodded, “maybe, I’ll think on it before I talk to him tomorrow. I just don’t want what I say to impact Scope down the line.”

“Doesn’t seem like Tripwire wants rid of him, he should be ok.”

“Until when? He’s a non-functioning rifle, at some point down the line that’s going to come back and bite him in the aft. I said I couldn’t rewrite his spark code and right now, Scope’s lack of firing is an itch, but one day it’s going to become physically painful for him to ignore. How many others are out there living with damaged parts because some factory mech has fingers better suited to mining?” Ratchet snapped, immediately regretting it, “sorry. It’s been a long day.”

Wheeljack reached over and laced his fingers with Ratchet’s, using his thumb to stroke the top of his hand, “it’s ok. You can vent to me, you know I agree, besides, I was there when you took your medic exam remember? I suffered through that and this is nothing in comparison.” 

Ratchet couldn’t help but smile at that, sarcasm dripping when he spoke again, “you’re Primus incarnate.”

“I don’t know about that, just ‘Jack’s fine,” he smiled, “I’m just Primus in the berth.”

“You are not, you’re a lazy fragger in the berth.”

“Funny, you say that, but you scream Primus.”

Ratchet snorted and smacked his lover lightly on the shoulder, “I might start screaming Unicron now.”

“You can scream what you want as long as you keep screaming,” Wheeljack purred.

Ratchet snorted, “I am not encouraging this, Jack. I’m at work.”

“Your shift finished hours ago. Technically this is a hobby in your spare time.”

“This is still my medbay.”

Having successfully distracted Ratchet away from the upset of his task, Wheeljack grinned, “fine, fine. How much longer are you going to be tonight? You need to rest properly, not recharge in your chair again.”

Ratchet knew that’s exactly what would have happened if Wheeljack hadn’t visited and a good night’s recharge would do him more good than another all nighter. It was best to start fresh instead of fighting his tiredness. “Alright, give me a few minutes to check my patients and we’ll go. I can’t leave Scope like this.” 

Wheeljack looked triumphant, “great, if we hurry then we might even catch that talk show you like. You can complain about the panel mech’s again.”

Ratchet nodded and started to clear up after himself. Relaxing sounded nice and he could think of a way to describe Scope’s condition to Tripwire without putting the blame on a single mech. “I wouldn’t need to complain if they’d stop using psudo-medicine to back up these ‘miracle’ claims. I swear the next mech who comes in here and asks me if meditation will cure a blocked line, I’ll operate on without anaesthetic.”

“You would not, one yelp of pain and you’d feel awful.”

“I don’t think you understand how much I hate fake treatments.”

Ten minutes later, once Ratchet had checked - and triple checked - Scope wouldn’t offline during the night, the three of them left the medbay, Playback jumping cracks in the tiles between them. Ratchet wished he could be that carefree.


	12. Chapter 12

Voices. Distant and quiet, like whispers on the wind, too far away to make out any words. Calling to him, teasing him closer across the endless abyss. 

Scope stumbled through the darkness of his mind, surrounded by nothing but thick, syrupy blackness the like of which he couldn’t even imagine in his wildest dreams. Pure nothingness broken occasionally by the whispers, then silence. Disconnected from his body he felt as if he were made of air, weightless and floating in a black hole. His thoughts were slow, strangled, as if time itself were frozen. 

‘Walk’ he willed himself. Were his legs even moving? If they were then there was no solid ground beneath him.

It should have been scary. Why wasn’t it? Scope asked himself, he had no access to his frame, no memory of what had happened, no senses to speak of. Just the endless blackness that lay before him like an eternity, wrapping him in serene comfort like a heated blanket and a good night of recharge. Scope found peaceful calmness. No troubles, no cares, just the feeling of himself frozen in time. 

The voices came back, closer this time, unfamiliar to his audios. Scope called out to them, looking for answers to his questions. ‘Who am I?’, his vocaliser made no sound. ‘Where am I?’, ‘Who are you?’. While he hadn’t voiced the questions, the sound of them echoed around his formless self. 

The voices continued to speak, sometimes close, sometimes far. “no, this one....sed...six days…....Scope.”

Yes, that was his name, he was Scope and he was a rifle… what was a rifle?

\----------

Tripwire appeared on the console screen, arms crossed over his chest, face set in a cold frown, “you have news, I hope?”

Ratchet subconsciously mirrored Tripwire’s aggressive stance, he wasn’t afraid of the young scientist and wasn’t about to be bullied into submission. “I’ve finished my examination and found the source of Scope’s problem. It’s a creation flaw, when his frame was built, one of his memory cards was damaged. Instead of it being replaced, the builder tried to weld it back together.”

Tripwire grit his dentals and Ratchet could tell he was cursing the loss of a good worker and not Scope’s life. “Why did he break now?”

“The weld was badly applied and Scope’s been an active mech, it was always going to happen eventually. The weld simply weakened over time and caused an information leak from that memory card to the other undamaged ones. It wouldn’t have taken much to of a knock to dislodge the last part of the weld, it may have been Scope leaning his head back against the wall as he sat down or turning his head too fast. Once it had broken free, the bleed of information caused a full processor failure. You’re lucky you got him here when you did, he would have offlined if you left it much longer.”

“So you can fix him?”

Ratchet nodded.

“Good, when can I pick him up? I need him back.”

“Probably in a few weeks,” Ratchet replied, “I’ll know more once I’ve finished fixing the damage and replaced the code he lost. Once he’s back online, I can assess what other damage there is.”

“Weeks!? I need him now!”

“If you take him now, then you’ll be bringing him back in a month. Processors are delicate, you don’t make quick repairs to them and hope for the best, his condition now is proof of that. If you want him back in working order then you have to give me time to work. I have other responsibilities and I am doing this free of charge when I have time to spare. If you want to take him to one of the Iacon clinics, then be my guest, he’ll probably be back with you in a few days, of course, they will expect to be paid for fast service and the repairs, Iacon’s medics cater to the elite class so don’t expect these repairs to come cheap.”

Tripwire clenched his fists and hissed through his dentals, “fine. Keep me updated then.”

“Of course,” Ratchet replied blandly, pleased his bluff had worked, “I’ll speak to you when I have a better idea of how long it will take me.”

With a curt nod, Tripwire cut the conversation. Ratchet smiled, glad that task was out of the way and walked out of his office to greet his students arriving for their lesson.

The ward was busy all throughout the day and his students worked well in the rush, moving through their patients quickly and efficiently. A race track pile up brought five angry racers into the medbay while half the class were on break, their injuries were minor, but they argued nonstop about who was to blame and Ratchet was more than pleased to see them leave. Aside from a few hiccups, the rest of the shift went smoothly, but it wasn’t until the students had left for the day that Ratchet could turn his attention to Scope. 

Repairs he’d made over the past few days were healing nicely, grafted wiring causing no adverse reactions and the cleaned hardware seemed to be functioning properly. It would take Scope being brought online to say for certain if the repairs would suffice, but Ratchet believed there would be no ongoing problems. Now all that was left was the complete rewrite of code, which would - hopefully - go as smoothly as the repairs had. 

By the time Perceptor and First Aid entered the medbay, Ratchet had started the coding task, using a blueprint of rifle coding he’d downloaded from the database to patch up the missing code in Scope’s system. 

“Good evening, Ratchet,” Perceptor said, “I’m sorry we’re late, I had an unexpected meeting I couldn’t escape from.”

Ratchet waved a hand dismissively, “it’s fine, don’t worry about it, I was going to be here for a while longer anyway. Jack is teaching a late class tonight, an extra credit thing for the strugglers. Thank you for bringing Aid back.”

“I took deep scans of all the mechs like you asked,” First Aid said, already busying himself with uploading his results into a sealed medipad for Ratchet to look at later. After the incident with Scope, Ratchet wanted no more surprises and had asked for full scans of every disposable class mech that would agree to have one. “They’re all ok except for Stylus who has a fracture in his left hip joint. The metal in his protoform is weak in that one spot, it’s a really old injury though and he says it doesn’t bother him.”

“Thank you, Aid, I’ll look them over tonight.”

Pleased with the praise, First Aid rocked on his heels, “can I get some energon now or do you want me to help with anything else?”

“Of course, go and fuel up.”

First Aid ran off into Ratchet’s office as Perceptor crossed to short distance to stand opposite Ratchet, looking down at Scope on the berth between them. “How is he doing today?”

“Out of danger now, his recovery will take time but he’s young and strong so he should do fine,” Ratchet replied, “I spoke to Tripwire this morning and told him that all of this was a creation fault and was always destined to happen. He seemed to buy that, but he wasn’t happy to find out Scope wouldn’t be home for a while.”

Perceptor nodded slowly, “thank you, I hope that will stop him questioning what happens to the mechs in my office. Other students are starting to do the same and I don’t want a revolt, it took me long enough to put the rule in place without them complaining.”

Ratchet frowned, “will you be alright?” What they were doing was risky and if the wrong mechs found out then there would be trouble for all of them as well as the disposables they were trying to help.

The scientist nodded, “I set them double the usual amount of homework, by tomorrow they will all be too tired to question anything.”

Ratchet chuckled deeply, “Jack would be proud, distractions like that are his trick.”

“I am aware,” Perceptor replied, a thin smile pulling on his lips, “it was his idea afterall.”

The chuckle turned into a snort of laughter and Ratchet shook his head, “I should have known better than to think otherwise.”

\---------

Scope didn’t so much hear the laughter as feel it echoing around him in vibrating shockwaves. Starting slow, the vibrations gained intensity each time they echoed, finally reaching a peak where Scope felt as if he were standing in the centre of an earthquake. His sanctuary was shattered like a bullet through a window, spiderweb cracks appearing silver against the black nothingness.

Panicked now, Scope screamed for the voices to leave, but as before, he found himself mute. Again and again he shouted into the void, while the crumbling walls of his sanctuary threatened to shatter around him. 

Scope reached out, blind to the whereabouts of his limbs in the thick blackness - if they even existed at all. He couldn’t feel the cracks, but pawed desperately at them regardless, trying in vain to smooth them over and repair the damage. It was no use, even after the laughter was gone the cracks remained, stark silver threading through his dark world.

Angrily, Scope screamed and the silence on his lips only served to aggravate him further. The anger inside him welled up until he could feel himself shaking violently as he cursed the voices. How dare they destroy his peace and calm then laugh about it.

\--------

Scope’s sparkrate rose fast, reaching a critical level indicative of a spark attack that set the alarm system on his monitor blaring. Ratchet jumped and was on his feet in a second, snatching up his medipad to assess the situation. Having already repaired all Scope’s major systems, the threat of offlining had passed, there was no reason for Scope to be on the verge of spark attack. Cursing under his breath Ratchet flicked through all the readouts looking for the damage and frowned when he could find nothing. 

As fast as the attack came, it passed. Scope’s sparkrate dropped back within normal parameters and the alarm stopped. Seemingly as if the rise had never happened.

“What are you doing, Scope?” Ratchet asked himself as he placed a hand over the rifle’s chest to scan him for anything he could possibly have missed. He could feel Scope’s spark switch from a normal pulse rate, twisting under his fingers as it vibrated. Surprised, Ratchet pressed his palm firmly to Scope’s chest plating and the vibrations increased in intensity, angry and uncomfortable. 

Perceptor watched with rapt fascination. While he couldn’t say the inner workings of Cybertronians had ever been of any real interest to him, he wouldn’t deny that Scope’s reaction to Ratchet wasn’t intriguing. “It’s almost like he wants you to leave him alone,” he heard himself say.

Ratchet nodded and took his hand away, as before, Scope’s sparkrate dropped and the vibrations ceased. Just to be sure it wasn’t a fluke, he again pressed his whole hand over Scope’s chest and pressed down slightly. Like a bouncy ball dropped down a flight of stairs, Scope’s spark ricocheted around it’s chamber in a fit of anger. 

“Amazing,” Ratchet said in disbelief as he took his hand away and watched the monitor readout drop, “I’ve never seen anything like this. It shouldn’t be possible.”

“He certainly doesn’t like to be touched,” Perceptor agreed, picking up the discarded medipad to look at the sparkrate graphs blip across the screen.

“I’m not sure I can blame him for that, I doubt he’s had much in the way of good touch.”

“Do you think that this is a defensive reaction to anticipating pain?”

Ratchet shook his head, “I have no idea. Maybe it’s that or maybe it’s something entirely different, like I said, this is new to me. Honestly, I’m actually more stunned that he’s aware of what’s around him, his secondary systems are all offline and he’s heavily sedated, he should be in deep recharge.”

\-----------

Scope could hear the voices clearly now and the speakers seemed familiar, but his mind couldn’t place where he’d heard them before. He craved the calm and silent darkness they had so rudely taken from him, but after deciding they meant him no harm, didn’t try and make them leave again.

Anyway, it was clear they weren’t going anytime soon, not now he had roused their interest with his display. Scope resigned himself to their company. Listening to them talk about him like he wasn’t there. When they said something he didn’t like, he protested in the same way he had before. 

It had the desired effect, one of the voices spoke quickly and excited, addressing questions to him, the other voice didn’t speak as often and usually only to the first voice.

\-----------

Ratchet stared at Scope in disbelief, “I can’t believe it! If I wasn’t seeing it for myself then I’d say it was a lie. Imagine it, real, honest to Primus, spark communication!”

 

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, Ratchet, this has implications beyond what you have thought of yet,” Perceptor said with a frown, “if news of this were to get out and mechs were to find out that a disposable class mech could prove his spark was more than a knock off, the consequences would be catastrophic for all his kind. We would be talking mass recalls in every market, that would be thousands of mechs.” 

As always, Perceptor thought logically about the situation, grounding Ratchet’s enthusiasm, his excitement faded into dread. It was true of course. For a disposable to achieve what a forged mech hadn’t was unheard of and potentially dangerous. News only had to reach the wrong mechs and anything could happen, although it would without a doubt only end badly for disposables everywhere.

“You’re right,” Ratchet said soberly, “this has to stay between us.” 

Perceptor nodded in agreement, “and Wheeljack.”

Ratchet raised an optic ridge at Perceptor.

“Ratchet,” Perceptor said with a small, amused smile, “I am certain you couldn’t keep a secret of this magnitude from him even if you were promised all of Cybertron.”

That was true enough, Ratchet always hated to keep secrets from his lover. “Do you hear that, Scope? You can’t let anyone else know you can communicate like this. I’ll let you know when it’s safe for you, but the rest of the time you have to stay quiet. Do you understand?” Ratchet took the slight increase in spark rate as a yes and pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering to himself about the injustice of keeping the greatest discovery for Cybertronians a secret.

\----------------------------------

Ratchet couldn’t concentrate at all the next day and struggled to focus on teaching his students. His processor ran with questions he couldn’t answer, what if all mechs in medical stasis could hear what was happening to them? What if they could feel the medic working on them? What if they felt pain and couldn’t respond? Was it scary to be trapped in their frames unable to move? If it wasn’t limited to Scope and all mechs could communicate that way when pressed, then how many other mechs had tried to talk to him but been ignored? Had he ever inadvertently hurt a mech? Were his students hurting mechs? No, that last one did have an answer, their patients were all conscious and rather loud in voicing their complaints.

It would make sense to alert all medics to the possibility of mechs being conscious even in forced stasis, but Perceptor was right, if news spread of what they had discovered then mechs would want proof. That could only lead to research labs full of disposable class mechs in forced stasis, probes in their sparks as ‘medics’ tried to get them to respond. Made to endure what could only be described as torture, all to prove a theory Ratchet wasn’t sure he could even replicate himself.

Of course there was the possibility that Scope was a one off and if that were true then there was no danger of another medic finding out. A medic with fewer morals would certainly use the discovery to their own advantage. Reporting it to the senate would definitely come with a large reward and probably a research grant and new clinic to work from. 

If it was proof that you weren’t what your frame made you, then wasn’t the spark - not the frame - the stronger component? Mechs would certainly enjoy answering such a question.

If it did prove to be true then the Senate’s philosophy would fall like a house of cards in a tornado, fringe cults would grow in strength and demand to be treated fairly. Mechs would revolt against the system that oppressed them and forced them to obey though fear. Thousands of mechs would find their voices and shout that their assigned job wasn’t what they wished to do. 

There would be a class war.

“Sir,” First Aid’s voice said, snapping Ratchet from his unnerving thoughts, “is something wrong? You are shaking.”

A few of the students had turned to look at him and Ratchet brushed off their concern with a lie, “I haven’t fuelled since last night, keep working while I take a few minutes to do so.” 

The energon sat badly in his fuel tank and Ratchet did his best to ignore it. The knowledge of his discovery weighed heavily on him. 

Kicking his students out early, Ratchet finished up the last few patients and sat with Scope who remained unresponsive to his questions for the rest of the night. 

Perhaps it had been a fluke. Selfishly he hoped that was the truth, that would remove some of the stress twisting his own spark. 

It didn’t stop Perceptor coming in later that night with a stack of datapads to read to Scope. 

“I don’t think he’s going to understand advanced science,” Ratchet said lightly, picking up one of the datapads with a chuckle, “this is a little above his current knowledge level.”

“I would be surprised if he did, I doubt my students would understand them either, but these are the only datapads I own and I feel that company is more important than the subject.”

“He hasn’t been responsive at all today.”

Perceptor shrugged, “I don’t mind. I just feel like I should do something, although this is probably not the right thing. In this situation I’m not sure what would be considered the right thing. So I’ll sit here and read to him just in case he decides to wake up again.”

Ratchet smiled at that and left them alone. It was a nice gesture if nothing else and Ratchet didn’t mind the company. Perceptor got himself comfortable and opened the datapad to the first page, reading the title before settling into a rhythm of reading the text and explaining what it meant. 

Ratchet continued with the coding he had readied the day before, locking out the rifle code Scope wouldn’t need.

Neither mech noticed Scope’s hand twitch towards Perceptor.


	13. Chapter 13

Nine days after being carried into the medbay, barely functioning and close to offlining, Scope’s optics finally flickered online. A small, welcome sign of life to Ratchet who waited pensive at the rifle’s side. 

Final repairs had been made hours ago and Scope should have brought himself online not long after. Waking any mech from deep stasis carried risks, especially for those who had spent a prolonged amount of time in it. Worse still for those critically injured and recovering from invasive surgery. Waking a mech from medically induced stasis as soon as possible was a priority, but Scope didn’t seem to want to wake up at all. Ratchet couldn’t blame him, what good did he have to come back to? All in all, Ratchet shouldn’t have been surprised it took Scope so long to wake up. After hour two of waiting with no sign of consciousness, Ratchet checked his repairs, idling on the worry he’d missed something major. There was nothing of course, he had triple checked his work before bringing his patient online. So when Scope finally showed a small sign of life, proving he wasn’t going to spend eternity in stasis, Ratchet breathed a sigh of relief.

Scope blinked, then stared blankly at the ceiling as one by one his processor functions came online. Each small piece of carefully rewritten code seamlessly merged into his original script, bridging the gaps left by his meltdown. Updates raced through his processor, leaving him struggling to keep up with the repairs, after trying to slow it all down in a futile attempt to understand what was happening to him, he gave up and let them run unhindered. He couldn’t remember his processor ever moving so fast, but then there wasn’t much he did remember. All he knew was that he was exhausted, both mentally and physically, his spark, no, his very existence, felt strained and knotted, pulled too thin to be comfortable. 

Scope groaned as feelings started to flood his frame. It was all too much, his limbs - stiff from lack of moment - ached as his sensors came to life in waves. Like thousands of popping bubbles under his plating. Even the week he’d spent locked in his alt mode, stashed in the small gun closet, after upsetting his owner hadn’t ended in the tingling numb ache he was currently feeling.

Finally gaining control over some minor motor functions, Scope contracted his optics against the harsh glare of the overhead lights. Better now he didn’t feel as if he were staring into a sun. 

To his left he heard the low rumble of a mech speaking his name, the vaguely familiar tone recognisable even through the static of his translating unit. Again he heard it, not a language he was used to, the words were sharp and cutting, nothing like the humming, rhythmical tones he understood. Again the sharp word came, followed by a hand on his shoulder, gentle and unthreatening, drawing his attention. Tilting his head to the side, Scope looked the white and red mech over, placing him as the medic he’d met before. 

Ratchet smiled warmly, the expression melting away the concern and worry that had been etched on his face not a few seconds earlier, “it’s about time, you had me worried.”

Scope didn’t reply, wasn’t sure how to when he didn’t understand what was said. Instead he tried to focus all his processor power on moving his heavy limbs. By the time he’d finally managed to push himself up onto his elbows, Ratchet had a hand on his chest. Scope stared down at the offending appendage as if that alone would remove it. 

“Don’t try and get up yet, Scope, you’ll do yourself an injury. Lay back and rest.”

/I don’t understand,/ he rasped, voice alien to his audials. 

“You’ve been in stasis for a long time and it’s going to be a while until you have full control of your frame again. Until you do, it’s best you don’t move, you risk injuring yourself otherwise.” 

Scope tried to sit up again, but again the heavy hand held him still. /I don’t understand,/ he tried again, struggling against the hold with heavy, clumsy fingers. /I don’t understand. Please./

Ratchet paused, taking a guess that the problem was with Scope’s translation unit, if that didn’t come online soon then he would need to root out the problem. He switched to the Primal Vernacular that the rifle favoured. His tone calm and patient, /don’t fight, Scope./ 

Words he understood were all Scope needed to calm down and obey the next order to lay back and rest. Done fighting, he dropped his head back to the berth, the loud bang echoed around the empty medbay and registered as painful to Scope a few seconds later. With a whine, he brought a hand up in an effort to rub the spot, but misjudged the distance and weight of his arm, slapping himself squarely in the face.

Ratchet shook his head as he tried to hide the amused quirk of his lips. /What did I just say about doing yourself an injury? Take it slow. You’ve been in stasis for nine days and had a full base code rewrite, I’m sure everything is confusing right now. It will take a while for your frame to catch up with your processor, so don’t fight it and for Primus’ sake, don’t get up. Now, do you think you can handle some proper energon?/

Scope nodded, regretting it instantly when the movement made him feel dizzy. After being on a drip feed for an apparent nine days, his empty fuel tank made sense even though his HUD registered him as well fueled. 

Having Ratchet plug the injector into his fuel tank was humiliating, that was something he liked to do himself, in private, away from the social stigma of ‘abnormal’. Turning his head away from his medic, he stared at the far wall and tried to forget what was happening. Ratchet didn’t comment, he’d seen enough disposable class mechs fret over their energon intakes and knew there was nothing he could say to ease their worries. The sigma itself was ridiculous, mechs looking down on disposables for injecting energon when there were forged mechs who did the same. Ratchet would stake his medical licence on there being more injecting mechs on Cybertron than mechs who fueled by mouth. Not that it would make the disposable class feel better to know the truth. 

Scope forgave Ratchet for the embarrassment the moment high quality medical grade energon flooded into his tank, thick with additives that his frame greedily snatched up. 

/I have to ask,/ Ratchet said as he worked, /do you remember anything about what happened while you were in stasis?/

Scope thought back, looking for his last memory. Flashes of agonising pain, Tripwire calling his name, burning tearing at his processor for what seemed like eternity, then nothing. No. Not nothing, a something he couldn’t describe and didn’t try to. /No, Sir, I don’t think so. Should I remember anything?/

Ratchet had been hoping for another answer, one that validated his theory that a mech’s consciousness was tied to their spark and not their processor. Still, it was early days and Scope had just woken up, once his processor had settled and the mech was more relaxed, the memories could come back. At least he hoped they would. /I suppose not,/ he said eventually, replaying the past events in his mind again. Every time Perceptor had visited, the little rifle’s spark rate rose excitedly then dropped off into a relaxed rhythm, only rising again when Perceptor left, like a youngling calling for their guardian. Ratchet had come to believe it was all true emotions, the timing was too coincidental to be anything else.

Full of energon and happily sated, Scope relaxed back against the berth and watched Ratchet run the scanner over his frame. The readouts were promising, Scope’s systems were adjusting to the new coding and although they were sluggish it was nothing to worry about, Scope’s self repair would eventually kick in and clear up the bugs. Provided it was working.

/When is my owner coming to get me?/ Scope asked quietly, unsure he wanted an answer at all, /he is going to be very mad that I’ve been gone so long./ If Ratchet was telling the truth and he had been in stasis for nine days, then his return to Tripwire was something he dreaded. 

/I’ve spoken to Tripwire, he knows he can’t come and get you until I’ve cleared you and I’m not going to clear you until I’m sure you’re healthy. When you’re feeling better, I’ll explain it everything to you. Alright? You just focus on getting better./

Scope nodded, thankful that at least Tripwire wasn’t going to burst in and demand he return home. /Is he mad that I broke?/

Ratchet shook his head, /I think he’s worried about you./

Scope almost scoffed, the very thought was absurd. Tripwire worried about a lot of things, but he didn’t worry about his tools and Scope knew that’s exactly what he was. If Tripwire was worried, then it was about his investment, not his disposable’s wellbeing. It was worrying about where and how he could make enough credits to stay in his classes and student apartment if he couldn’t rent his cleaner out. It was worrying about having to buy a new disposable and train them. It was a lot of things, but it definitely wasn’t whether Scope was in pain or not.

In all his time with Tripwire, Scope couldn’t remember a single time his owner had worried about anyone but himself. Honestly, he wouldn’t think his owner capable of that kind of compassion. Tripwire didn’t make friends, he collected tools, anything to help his own advancement in the world. Instead of doing favours, the jet collected debts, surrounding himself with mechs who would have to pay back his ‘kindness’ when he demanded it. 

There had been times Scope had been fooled into believing Tripwire’s kindness was true, like when he was given the new blanket. The truth fizzled away soon enough, replaced by the harsh reality of the cold hard truth. Tripwire was a demanding mech who cared little about anything but himself.

Scope desperately wanted to be proven wrong, to have Tripwire be the kind, loving mech that Trooper had been to Trigger or that Ratchet seemed to be to First Aid. More than anything he wanted to be more than a tool, someone to be loved and cared for than something to be used then cast aside. It was never going to happen, he needed to remember he was a disposable class mech with an owner, not a friend. 

The truth was upsetting, but there was nothing he could do about it.

/Is Perceptor going to visit soon?/ He asked hopefully, pulling himself away from depressive thoughts.

Ratchet froze and slowly turned to look at Scope, /you know Perceptor visited you?/

Did he know that? Scope looked for proof in his memories but found nothing. He couldn’t prove it, he just knew it to be right. He nodded mutely.

Ratchet’s lips curled into a smile. If Scope remembered the visits from Perceptor then his theory was fact, Scope had been communicating with them. It would take more proof to fully prove, but it was a good start. Pleased, he nodded, /he’ll swing by when he has some free time. He’s teaching a late class tonight, they’re on a field trip so I don’t think he’ll be here for a while./ 

/Ok,/ Scope replied, looking to the door just in case that time was now, /may I recharge a little bit until then?/

/You don’t need permission to recharge, Scope, you’re here to recover and you need to recharge to do that,/ Ratchet replied.

With a soft nod, Scope rolled onto his side facing the door, /thank you./

Considering how tired he was, recharge didn’t come easy, the new surroundings and noises kept him on high alert, wary to offline his optics for too long in case something happened. There wasn’t a time he ever thought he’d willingly trade a real berth for his closet and blanket, yet here he was, wishing he could go back to the safety of his dark, four walls and the thick blanket he could cocoon himself inside. Down the hallway, Weld shouted at one of his students, anger thick in his voice, the words were too muffled to make out, but that didn’t matter to Scope and he curled up fearfully, trapped in the memories of being on the receiving end of such ire.

Somewhere between the worries and fears, he did unknowingly slip into recharge. It wasn’t a long or very fulfilling nap, but waking up was worth it when he saw Ratchet was gone and in his place, sitting at his bedside with his legs crossed, elbow braced on the chair’s arm, reading quietly from a datapad was Perceptor. Before he could say anything, his spark jumped, registering on the monitor with a series of happy blips. Embarrassed, Scope tried to cover it up by moving, but it was too late, Perceptor had heard it and set the pad down as he looked over. /Good evening, I didn’t want to wake you, Ratchet said you needed your rest and I agree. How are you feeling?/

Scope stared at Perceptor, running through all the answers it was possible to give. A real mech, a forged scientist no less, had actually asked him how he was? Tripwire never asked that and certainly wouldn’t have cared for an answer. Perceptor did want an answer, Scope could see it on his face, etched into the look of worry and relief. /I...I am better, thank you./ That was a good answer wasn’t it? Better than the long winded truth anyway.

/Well I should imagine you are feeling better than you were, it would be hard to be any worse. How does your head feel?/

Scope shifted, staring down at his hands clenched together in his lap, /you know the feeling when your owner takes you shooting and you don’t have time to cool down properly? How everything gets really hot and sensitive, then your audials ring when you transform back to root mode and you get that buzzy headache that makes everything sound too loud and it makes the world feel wriggly?/

Perceptor smiled as he shook his head, /no Scope, I can’t say I do./

Scope looked at Perceptor, realising then how stupid his comparison had been, a forged scientist had no owner and didn’t get shot. /Right. Sorry,/ he said quietly. 

Stretching his legs out, Perceptor leaned back in his chair and crossed his ankles, steepling his fingers over his lap as he spoke, /I think I can understand the feeling, if not the comparison. A long time ago, when I was fresh from the academy, I took a job working as an analyst for an offworld mining company. My job was to take a sample of each batch of mined energon and run a series of tests to make sure it met the standards to be shipped to Cybertron. It wasn’t complicated, but it was monotonous and repetitive. All of the work I did required I be in my alt mode, working at high magnification. I worked long hours and didn’t get much free time to spend in my root mode. When I moved on to another job, I’d spent so long in my alt mode that spending long amounts of time in my root mode was uncomfortable. I had become so used to seeing at magnification that my optics took a while to adjust back to daily use. The bright lights and constant movement of the city only made it worse, I had terrible processor aches for weeks, it felt as if someone was sticking hot needles into my optic sensors and slicing at my brain module. Does that sound like your shooting feeling?/

It did actually - it wasn’t a perfect analogy but it was close enough - Scope was impressed, not only because a forged mech would admit to feeling the same as a disposable, but that Perceptor had taken the time to explain he understood the pain. He nodded softly, /it sounds very like it./

/Then you have my condolences and I hope you feel better soon. No mech deserves that./

There was an honesty in the scientist’s tone that made Scope sad, he’d made this mech worry about him feeling pain. /Ratchet has been taking good care of me,/ he said quickly, hoping that would stop Perceptor worry, /he already fixed me a lot. I think I am better now than I was when I was made./

Perceptor looked towards the medic’s office, /Ratchet’s a good mech and you’re in good hands. I know he’ll take good care of you./ He turned serious, turning back to Scope with a gentle frown, guilt thick on his face, /I am sorry, Scope, for everything that happened to you. When I gave you the medipad, I had no idea this would happen. I just thought it would be easier for you if you spoke the common language. I wanted to help and I made it much worse. For that I apologise and whatever I can do to fix it, I will./

Disbelief. Scope had no word to describe how he was feeling, but disbelief was close enough. Nothing made sense and left him feeling like he’d woken up in an alternate reality where mechs were decent and disposables weren’t worthless. Perceptor, a mech of standing, well respected and most definitely forged, was apologising and offering to help fix his problems. Ratchet, another forged mech of good standing, had poured countless hours into his care, rebuilding him from the protoform up. Real mechs who treated him the same and didn’t look down on him for being a disposable, easily replaced and cheaply made.

There had to be a catch somewhere, but Scope was enjoying the feeling too much to care about what could or might happen later. /I don’t blame you,/ he said finally, /it sounded really nice and I was the one who downloaded the pad. It’s my fault I am broken and that it didn’t work. I would have liked to know it, but it doesn’t matter, I don’t want to try again. It’s probably for the best anyway, I didn’t want to explain to my owner why I could suddenly talk Neocybex./

/No Scope, it isn’t your fault and you aren’t broken. If you’re still serious about wanting to learn then there are other ways for you to learn that don’t involve you downloading a pack, they’ll take longer and you’ll need to work at it, but there is no reason you can’t teach yourself anything you want. You might not be able to speak Neocybex if your translation unit doesn’t let you hear what it sounds like, but I don’t think learning to read it would be impossible for you. It would give you some freedom in that you could read the world around you and wouldn’t need to constantly rely on Tripwire./

Scope considered that for a moment, it didn’t take long to decide it would be nice to feel less isolated. /How would I learn? I don’t want to put it in my head again./

/No, no. Nothing like that. Like I said, it will take time and you’ll have to be patient with yourself and study when you have the time, but you could learn it all manually from a datapad. There are intelligence tests given to newly onlined mechs, they start very simple, I can teach you the letters and sounds, then you can practice when you’re alone. We could do the same for Primal as well if you liked./

/You’d do that for me?/ Scope asked. Never before had he felt the urge to launch himself into a mechs arms and cry out of happiness. He resisted, but only just and mostly because he was too tired to put so much effort into moving his frame. /Please! I would very much like to learn it all!/

Perceptor chuckled, /ok. I will gather the materials before I visit you again./

Scope buzzed with excitement, unbothered by how the sparkrate monitor blipped happily behind him. /Are you sure you don’t mind?/

/I don’t mind at all,/ the scientist replied, /I am here anyway and it will be more enjoyable than what I’ve been teaching lately./

Scope lay back, head resting on the raised section of the berth. His frame felt better after the energon Ratchet had fed him and seeing Perceptor made him want to stay awake, but his frame called for recharge. /Thank you. I will be your best student ever./

Perceptor smiled softly, /you need to get some rest then if you’re going to do that. I’ve had some very good students in the past./

Silently he vowed to himself that no matter what it took, he’d prove beyond doubt that he would be the best. /I don’t want to recharge while you’re here./

/It’s getting late, Scope, I got here quite a while ago, I just didn’t want to wake you. I need to be going soon so Ratchet can do the same. His lover is probably waiting for him at home./

Sadly, Scope nodded, wishing that Perceptor had woken him up just so they could have had a little longer together. /If you don’t mind...I mean you’ve already been so kind...but.../ He trailed off, it was too much to ask and he didn’t want Perceptor to think he was ungrateful. 

/What is it you want?/ Perceptor asked, /I promise that I won’t be mad./

Raising his optics to meet Perceptor’s, Scope hummed softly, shy in his request, /if it isn’t too much trouble, would you read to me a little? I like it./

/Oh is that all?/ Perceptor asked with a chuckle, /I’m afraid all I have with me is the latest edition of the science journal which for the most part is a very dry read./

/I don’t mind./ Just hearing Perceptor was enough. 

Reaching over for the datapad he’d set down earlier, Perceptor flicked through for an article he thought would interest Scope. An essay on organic lifeforms and their levels of technology, it described a race who hadn’t yet learnt how to create simple metal tools, relying solely on shaped stone and wood. 

Scope settled back to listen, offlining his optics to try and imagine the race of organics who lived like animals. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t imagine living with no technology. /Why doesn’t the scientist mech just give them technology so they don’t have to use sticks any more?/

/Well we could do that, but then they would never learn on their own and we would be taking away their ability to grow themselves as a race. Learning how to do things for themselves is important, otherwise they’ll become dependent on the mechs who helped them and never try to better themselves./

/What’s wrong with that?/

Perceptor tapped the datapad as he thought of how to explain it, /how do you feel when you learn to do something for yourself and don’t need Tripwire’s help?/

Scope narrowed his optics, trying to think of anything he’d taught himself. He’d taught himself to clean, which Tripwire then took advantage of, so he guessed he taught himself that and in the beginning it had made him happy to know he had a skill that his owner valued. /It makes me feel good and smart./

Perceptor smiled, /and they will feel the same when they learn something new./

Scope still didn’t quite understand why giving them technology was bad when it would make their lives better, but if Perceptor said it was then he’d agree, Perceptor was a scientist so couldn’t be wrong. He settled down again to listen to the rest of the essay, keeping his questions to himself so Perceptor didn’t think he was completely stupid.

With Perceptor at his side, Scope felt at ease. It wasn’t the same with Tripwire, he belonged to his owner, needed to serve and protect him. As angry as he was with everything Tripwire had done to him, he found it hard to be angry AT Tripwire for doing it. His coding screamed at him, telling him to do whatever it took to please his owner, no matter the circumstances. Scope enjoyed Tripwire’s company because his coding told him to, being close to his owner was good, safe. 

Everything about Perceptor was different. Scope couldn’t understand what it was about the red mech that brought him peace. They barely knew each other, yet Scope felt content and safe wrapped in the older mech’s EMF. Perceptor felt like freedom, it was easy - if just for a while - to imagine he was a forged mech and Perceptor’s equal.

Scope drifted off into recharge while Perceptor was still talking, he fought to stay awake but his foggy processor got the best of him. He slept peacefully, deep in a healing recharge. Blissfully unaware of just how far he would, one day, have to go in order to protect the mech that would mean the world to him.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for body dysmorphia this chapter. I'm not sure that's the correct warning to give but I think it needs something.

“You know this is going to end terribly, don’t you?” Wheeljack asked quietly. He was stood by the far wall in Ratchet’s office, leaning heavily on the metal storage cabinets. Through the large window that overlooked the patient’s berths, he could see Perceptor teaching Scope how to read Neocybex. The door was open just enough for Scope’s stuttering voice to sound like a whisper in the distance, an indecipherable mumble with the occasional solid word. Scope traced the words with a long, slim finger as he spoke and Perceptor’s smile told Wheeljack that Scope was doing much better than his whispering suggested. 

Ratchet sighed tiredly and set the datapad he had been grading back on top of the pile. “He is quite attached to that little mech.”

“Which is a problem don’t you think?” Wheeljack replied, “Scope doesn’t belong to him and he’s going to have to go back to Tripwire eventually. You can’t keep Scope here forever, Ratch, you’re pushing the time limit already. It’s not fair on either of them to let this continue, they’ll both be hurt when it ends.”

“I know, Jack. I’ve already had this argument with myself a hundred times,” Ratchet said, his tone dripping with annoyance and helplessness, “I just don’t have the spark to stop Perceptor coming here. Scope is always so happy to see him and Percy has finally found a mech he actually cares for. Can you even remember that last time that happened? I can’t.” 

Why it was Scope who had finally cracked the walls surrounding Perceptor’s spark wasn’t lost on Ratchet. Scope was sweet and smart, taking joy in learning and working hard at his tasks, qualities Perceptor admired in any mech, but more so in a mech who learnt because he wanted to, not because he had to. It was the fact it had happened at all that shocked Ratchet. Aside from a handful of friends, Perceptor kept to himself, preferring quiet solitude to work without fear of interruptions. 

Perceptor had been one of the first mechs to join the secret CaEV mech movement and in all that time had been friendly and kind to every disposable class mech in his care, but he had never formed a real bond with any of them. Then along came Scope, an owned mech that Perceptor couldn’t have, and yet Perceptor had bonded with him like no other. 

“They’re going to get hurt,” Wheeljack said again, quieter this time. His fear came from a well meaning place, Perceptor was one of his best friends and over the years he’d watched Perceptor wall himself up after relationships turned sour. His attachment to Scope could only end badly and that would inevitably shut Perceptor down more. What kindness he showed to Scope now, would be cruel later for the rifle, knowing a good mech would make Tripwire so much worse. When they ended up facing each other again in class, nothing good could come of it, Wheeljack was certain.

Ratchet leaned back in his chair, “yes, you’re probably right, but Perceptor is a smart mech, without a doubt he already knows what you’re thinking and has thought it over more than we have. We can’t police his life, Jack, we just have to trust him. If he gets hurt then we’ll be there for him, that’s all we can do.”

“I still don’t like it,” Wheeljack huffed and pushed away from the cabinet, crossing the short distance to Ratchet’s chair, he reached down and massaged his thumbs into the nape of Ratchet’s neck. “You need a good night’s recharge,” he chastised as he worked his fingers in small circles to relax the tense cabling, “you’ve been working too many late nights lately and if I’m saying that then you know it’s serious.” 

Ratchet moaned into the touch and offlined his optics, “it’s exam time, I always work late.”

Wheeljack scoffed and leaned down to kiss him, “I’m sure that’s the only reason and keeping the medbay open late for Perceptor has nothing to do with it.”

“I have papers to grade.”

Wheeljack hummed and leaned down to whisper in Ratchet’s audial, “I think we still have some of that warming oil left over from last time we used it. If you come home now then I’ll dig it out and give you a proper, all over, massage.”

Stifling his moan the best he could, Ratchet bit his lip, “that does sound pretty good. Half an hour, then I’ll close up.”

Pleased with his win, Wheeljack grinned.

\------------

Scope was a fast learner, even with the processor injury that still limited his memory functions, he picked up the words quickly. They were working from the easiest datapad Perceptor had been able to find on short notice, the words were short and formed basic sentences. It wouldn’t be long before they moved on to the next stage, more complex words with multiple syllables and silent letters.

Perceptor had known the rifle had a quick mind when they’d first met, there was just something fascinating about the way he approached things, but to see how fast he learnt and adapted to the tasks at hand was astonishing. While he listened to Scope read a paragraph out loud, correcting his own mispronunciations before moving on, Perceptor wondered if such intelligence was limited to Scope or if all of the rifle class had the capacity for fast learning. The datamechs he usually worked with were intelligent in their own right, but they didn’t show the same interest in learning. They were hoarders of knowledge, taking what their owners told them and archiving it away to use later, unless the new information contradicted their old information, they didn’t ask questions. Their intelligence could be linked to their owners, but Scope was different, he actively looked for things to learn and didn’t seem to care what subject it was. Ratchet had seen him watching the students, listening carefully as they were given their lessons. Then later, when the students were gone, Scope would talk to First Aid, asking questions about what he’d heard and looking for clarification when things got too difficult.

Scope stopped reading and the medbay dropped into silence, it drew Perceptor’s attention, bringing him back to the present. The young mech narrowed his optics at the page, whispering out the syllables of a complicated word as he tried to piece it together. Perceptor wouldn’t help until Scope asked, that was the way Scope liked it. If he could figure it out on his own then it made him happier than being given the answer before he’d even tried. This time he couldn’t find his answer and mournfully turned to Perceptor for help. Learning to read Neocybex as Primal had its problems, words didn’t always translate well and sometimes didn’t exist at all, Cities were known by different names in each language and sometimes so were frame types. A handgun in Primal was a pistol in Neocybex, jet became flier, Iacon became Capital. Scope would spend more time learning the new terms than he would just learning to read them.

/What is a shu-t-tle? It says I have to catch a shu-t-tle?/ He dragged the U sound out - ‘shoo-t-tle’ - and it cracked in his vocaliser, turning to static both times.

“It’s a type of transport, like a jet except that shuttles do their journeys in space, they’re built for very long journeys, flying where no other mech can.”

/Like a space ship?/

“Sort of, yes. Shuttles are much smaller than space ships though and they’re sentient where ships are not. Spaceships can carry hundreds of mechs, shuttles can only take a few passengers.” 

/Shuttle,/ Scope repeated, using the correct pronunciation. /I’ve never met one of those./

Perceptor smiled, “that’s probably because they’re usually in space. They like to explore and visit new places. Do you remember the article I read to you about the mech who visited organic planets? He is a shuttle and his assistant is a jet.”

/He is? That sounds nice. I would like to be a shuttle assistant and go far away from here. My owner isn’t big enough to take a passenger and he wouldn’t take me anyway, he would take you./

Scope didn’t sound hurt, but Perceptor felt it for him, “you don’t have to worry about that, I am not going to run off with him. I don’t want to be anyones assistant.”

/You’re a professor,/ Scope said simply, shrugging his thin shoulders, /you have to be smarter than anyone else if you’re a professor, so you can’t be an assistant./

With a chuckle, Perceptor shook his head, “that’s not how it works, Scope.”

/It doesn’t matter anyway, even if my my owner doesn’t go into space with you, one day he will go somewhere and won’t want to take me. Then I’ll end up at the recycling plant. No one wants second hand rifles, he said so, so he’ll sell me to them instead. He told me that once, if I wasn’t good and didn’t do what I was told, then he would take me there and get a rifle who would. Now though...well now I’m broken and I’ve been away for a long time. That’s very bad and he’s going to be very angry at me./

Hearing Scope talk about being recycled for scrap and not sounding remotely fazed was eerie and it hurt Perceptor more than he was willing to admit. “Doesn’t that bother you at all?” 

/No,/ Scope said honestly, /I’m a disposable, I exist only while I have worth to my owner. It used to make me sad, but now I know that if I make him happy then he’ll want to keep me and making him happy makes me happy because I don’t get hurt. So now I just try really hard to do what he wants and then he says I’m good which is the best thing because it means I’m safe.”

There was so much wrong with that that Perceptor wasn’t sure where to start and decided not to touch most of Scope’s admission with a really long pole. /You have worth beyond that, Scope. You might be classed as disposable but is that what you think you are?”

Scope cocked his head to the side, looking for the trap in Perceptor’s question. /I am disposable, everyone says so./

There was no denying the truth in that, Scope wasn’t a mech, at least not by Senate standards. “Yes, but that’s what you’re classed as, not who you are. What do you think you are?”

/I.../ Scope looked uncomfortable, wringing his hands in his lap, /I...don’t really understand the question. I am disposable, that is my class and I have an owner, he brought me. Why would I think I was anything else when I know what I am? I am a tool./ Answering that he thought of himself as a mech was a risk he wasn’t willing to take, it was a statement that could potentially get him killed, but to lie and call himself a drone was more degrading than just admitting he was what he was.

Perceptor wanted a real answer, Scope knew that, he could practically feel it burning into his EMF. The older mech sighed softly, Scope was lying, he could hear it in how he answered, but he also knew better than to push and make himself the enemy. One day Scope would be comfortable enough to give him a truthful answer. For now, the only thing that mattered was keeping Scope’s trust so he would continue to be one of the ‘good guys’. “As long as you are happy it doesn’t matter.”

/I..../ Scope ducked his head, embarrassed, /I am happy with you, you are nice and you do nice things for me like teach me the best things. You don’t say I am useless and stupid and make me clean things./

“You aren’t worthless, you just have to find the value in yourself. Lots of mechs feel useless sometimes.”

/They do?/

Perceptor nodded, “when you find something you’re really good at, you won’t feel so worthless.”

Scope would have smiled if he could, his optics lit up and he sat up a little straighter, /I’m going to be very good at something one day./ He just wasn’t sure what that would be or if it was even an attainable goal, but Perceptor seemed to think it was and Perceptor was smart so it had to be true.

\------

Scope was already reading by the time Perceptor arrived two days later, carrying a heavy, ornately carved box. The young rifle sat cross legged in a nest of blankets and pillows pilfered from unused berths, a datapad rested comfortably in his lap and came to life as Scope slowly read it over in his lyrical tones. Perceptor stood and watched, lost in the moment.

“He’s been like that for hours,” Ratchet said softly from the bedside of a new arrival, “as soon as my students leave and he knows it’s safe, he’s back in that datapad. He reads well, I’ve been listening to his storytime.”

Perceptor’s smile barely kicked at the corner of his lips, but Ratchet knew an affectionate smile when he saw one. “I’m glad he’s enjoying it, I wasn’t sure he’d enjoy a book aimed at newsparks, but it is more interesting than those intelligence tests.”

“An essay on how perfect the Senate is would be more interesting than an intelligence test. In fact I’m hard pressed to think of anything that wouldn’t be more interesting, even paint drying sounds more appealing.”

Perceptor chuckled, “well we’re done with them now, I can find better things. I just hope no one is questioning why I brought a copy of ‘The Curious Glitchmouse and Friends’.”

Ratchet snorted and shook his head, “I need to share that image with Jack, he won’t believe me when I tell him.”

“I’ll deny it to my grave.”

Scope was a smart mech, they both knew it, and the intelligence tests had been insulting really. A few days of learning the letters by sight and piecing the sounds together was all it took before Scope sailed through the basic tests and looked for something more complicated. He took to trying to pronounce the ingredients list on a tube of medical glue. With the long, complex names and numbers that would tie the tongue of many a mech, the seemingly simple task kept him entertained for hours and gave Ratchet a good chuckle too. 

It wasn’t until Perceptor sat beside the berth that Scope registered the company and tore himself away from the story. /The glitchrat’s name is Glitch! That’s a disposable name,/ he said excitedly, /so I just pretend all the characters are disposables like me and it’s even better! I hope they all get home safe in the end otherwise I won’t like them being like me any more./ 

“I am glad you’re enjoying it,” Perceptor replied with a smile. He set the box on the berth which peaked Scope’s curiosity and the datapad dropped to the berth forgotten. 

/What’s that?/

“I thought we would do something different today, there isn’t much I can help you with until you get to the more complicated reading material and even then I think you can figure most of it out on your own.” Carefully he opened the box and set out the game of lights and game pieces, “I don’t imagine you’ve ever played Hex?”

Scope shook his head and picked up a tall game piece in the shape of a seeker tower, treating it as if it were made of glass and not solid metal, he turned it over in his hands, inspecting it in awe.

“Well I think it will appeal to you, it’s a game of strategy and adaptation. I don’t have a battle computer myself so I have no idea if this will help you stretch yours, but you don’t get to use it much anymore and this seemed like the best idea to help with that.”

Scope bounced, excited at the prospect of using one of the functions he was denied by Tripwire. His excitement bubbled into clumsy limbs and he knocked a few of the pieces over, gingerly he reached down to set them back into place, /I am sorry, I didn’t mean to do that./

Scope sat patiently while Perceptor finished setting the board and explained the rules. When a piece looked interesting or Perceptor named it as an important gamepiece, Scope picked it up for a closer look, running his fingers over it almost lovingly before setting it back on the correct square. 

The game itself wasn’t complicated, certain pieces could only move in certain ways, but could remove the other player’s pieces. The aim of the game was to steal squares and pieces from the other player to gain control of the board. The board tiles changed between blue and red depending on which player currently held them, but remained predominantly blue despite Scope’s efforts to turn them red. 

/I thought I would be better at this,/ Scope said as Perceptor stole another of his squares, switching it to blue. 

“It is your first time playing,” Perceptor replied, “don’t be too hard on yourself, once you get the hang of playing it, you’ll get better, it takes practice. I’ve been playing for a long time so I have an unfair advantage over you.” Truthfully it wasn’t his game, battle simulations had never been his thing and if his opponent understood proper battlefield tactics he would have lost within the first few minutes. 

/Shouldn’t my battle computer make me really good at this though?/ Scope asked, /I should be able to predict your next move./

“Yes and no, a piece of coding tech is only as good as the mech controlling it and you aren’t a battlefield mech.” 

/No, I’m a cleaner,/ Scope said sourly, bitter at Perceptor for the choice of words and the stark reminder that he wasn’t where he was supposed to be, on the battlefield protecting his owner like his coding called for.

Perceptor shook his head, “your job isn’t who you are, Scope. Sometimes it is, lucky mechs live and breath their job and know they were never built for anything else, but most mechs aren’t their jobs, they work to survive and then go home to be the mech they want to be. You’re a cleaner because you have to be, that’s how you survive, but you’re a very smart mech and there’s nothing stopping you being _that_ mech when you get home. Even when you go back to Tripwire, you can still learn, there are opportunities to learn new things everywhere. Then, once you know what sort of things you like learning, you can focus on those and cleaning will just be the side project to your life.”

Scope listened, head cocked to the side, the game piece between his fingers forgotten, /you really think I’m smart?/ It was so nice to hear a compliment that he just wanted to make sure he’d heard it right.

The microscope chuckled, “I’ve never met a mech who learnt to read as fast as you have.” The fact he’d never met another mech who had needed to learn to read didn’t need mentioning. 

Scope sat up tall, looking proud. If Perceptor was right then it didn’t matter what he did as a job and being a cleaner suddenly seemed less degrading. /Thank you. I’ve never thought about it that way before. I always just wanted to be a rifle again./

“Do you think you would have been happier in the military?”

He shrugged in reply, /maybe? My owner took me to the firing range once to meet his friend, Trooper, he’s in the military and he has a rifle called Trigger who is amazing! There was another rifle there too, called Bullet, but Bullet was mean and said I was a bad shot, so I don’t like him. Trigger was really nice though and I liked him a lot. He loved his owner so much and his owner loved him too. Trigger said that Trooper is his seventh owner and he’s the only good one he’s had. He made the military sound bad, but he found Trooper there so it can’t be that bad. I think it has to be better than being like me, at least he gets to go shooting. I’ve been shooting once, in my whole life I got to be a rifle just once and now I can’t call myself a rifle at all and I hate it. My owner said I was a good rifle, but then he did this so I can’t have been that good otherwise I’d still have my barrel and trigger./

“I don’t think being in the military would be a good life for a rifle, your friend said he had six bad owners before getting one good one and he was very lucky to get him at all. He could easily have been assigned to a different soldier.” He tried to word it gently, but it was a tender topic when Scope treated it as the pinnacle of what a rifle should be, “it isn’t shooting at targets, Scope, it’s not the fun kind of shooting at all, military rifles are expected to shoot mechs and sometimes kill them. Would you really want to take a life?”

Scope thought hard about that, he’d never actually thought about it before. Being a military rifle sounded amazing in theory, getting to be what he was created to be, protecting his owner and being trusted to be a weapon, going on adventures and seeing new places. Perceptor painted a bad picture of the life and the luster fell right off. The thought of taking a life was sickening to him, admittedly he’d thought about it before when Tripwire hurt him and fantasised long and hard about sneaking into Tripwire’s room while he slept and snatching his life away with a well placed bullet or two. It would be so easy and Tripwire would never know. But those were just the thoughts of an angry mech with nowhere else to vent, when it came down to it, Scope knew he couldn’t do it, he would never be able to take a life. /I...I don’t think I want to play this game anymore,/ he said in a whisper, /I don’t feel so good./

“I’m sorry, Scope,” Perceptor said honestly, “I didn’t mean to upset you. You deserved to know the truth about military life though.”

/I’m a terrible rifle, I just wanted to be able to be a proper rifle and do what I was created to do, but I can’t even do that. I wouldn’t want to shoot a mech. That would make me bad and I’m not bad, I want to be good./

“It doesn’t make you a terrible rifle at all, it makes you a caring mech with a good spark.”

/That’s easy for you to say, you’re a scientist, you love what you do and you know you were built for that purpose. Imagine if you had that frame and you were terrible at science. Then people would look at you and pity you for being terrible at what you were created for. You’d end up a miner or a street cleaner and mechs would whisper behind your back and laugh because it’s so obvious you were not created for that job./ Scope’s voice turned to static, he was upset and couldn’t voice what he really wanted to say, he had the words but couldn’t form them, /you don’t understand how much it hurts to have your function taken away because your owner demands it. That you’ll never be who you want to be because you aren’t allowed to make your own decisions. I want things and I’ll never have them, I’ll never be a free mech./

“Scope,” Perceptor tried, talking gently in a way that brought Scope’s hackles up, “you’re right and I’m sorry. I don’t know what it’s like for you and I can’t imagine how horrible it is, but I would like to help if I can.”

Scope wrapped himself in one of the blankets, making a hood he could hide under, /if I had been onlined knowing Neocybex then I would be in the military now. Instead I got broken and sold as damaged goods, if Tripwire hadn’t come along then they would have scrapped me, I owe him my life. But, if I was normal then I would just be another military rifle and I wouldn’t know any better, maybe I would have found my Trooper and he would have loved me and called me nice things. Even if I didn’t find a nice mech, it wouldn’t have mattered, that would be my life and I wouldn’t know any better. I certainly wouldn’t be here wishing you would take me home instead./

“You want to come home with me?” He shouldn’t have been surprised, but to hear it from Scope’s mouth was not something he expected.

/Of course, who wouldn’t want that? I think you would be the best owner./

Perceptor had nothing to say to that, but he had a lot of thinking to do. Feeling guilty just for being Scope to that realisation, he realised he needed to go home and think about everything involving Scope. He couldn’t just walk away and it was his own fault. “lay down, Scope, I’ll finish reading your story to you if you want.”

Scope sat up and neatly folded the blankets he’d stolen, setting the pile at the end of the berth so Ratchet could take them back to their correct berths. Climbing under the remaining blanket, he curled into a ball and handed the datapad to Perceptor. 

As Perceptor started to read, Scope offlined his optics and listened to Perceptor’s voice. For a while he could pretend the older mech was his owner, stern but kind, strong but not dominating, the kind of owner who would tell him he did well and smiled when he learnt new things.

In his dreams Perceptor was his Trooper.


	15. Chapter 15

Aside from Wheeljack and Perceptor, Ratchet didn’t get many visitors to medbay once he sent his students home and closed his ward down for the day. Scope knew the procedure if one did happen to try their luck at an after hours appointment. When the main door opened it sounded a buzzer, Scope would move at soon as he heard it, chucking his datapad into the medical cabinet beside his bed and laying back on the berth. By the time the mech walked through the waiting area and onto the ward, Scope was on his back, staring at the ceiling, looking like any other sick mech. No one ever suspected anything else. 

No mechs were ever there long. Unless it was an absolute emergency and the mech was bleeding to death on the floor, Ratchet refused treatment and chased the mech away to whatever ward was working the late shift. Scope was used to to the interruptions and once the mech was gone, rearranged his blankets into his favourite nest shape and sat in the centre with his datapad. Visitors were an irritating, but losing his place on the page when he wasn’t a fast reader was far more annoying.

So when Ratchet received a late night visit, Scope expected it to go the same way. Except the mech who entered wasn’t the usual type to try for a sneaky appointment, his tall, highly polished and detailed frame screamed high ranking mech and when he spoke to call for Ratchet, his voice was that of a tower mech, cultured and rounded. Almost pleasant on the audials. Ratchet was about to shout that the ward was closed, but caught a glimpse of who his visitor was and stopped himself. He ran out to meet him, eyes wide in surprise. “Good evening, Pulse, it’s not often you visit the wards. What can I do for you?”

The mech cast a critical eye around the medbay and then offered Ratchet a thin smile, “you keep a clean medbay, I’m impressed. Unfortunately this isn’t a social call, this is business. Lets talk in your office.”

Ratchet nodded and moved aside so Pulse could enter, the door clicking closed behind them so the patients couldn’t hear what was said. Scope knew from experience that the office was a mess of files and supplies, not nearly as tidy as the medbay, Pulse would not be as impressed. He’d offered to clean it more than once but Ratchet had chased him out with a threat or three. He then thought about cleaning it as a surprise while Ratchet was at his home, a small token of appreciation for the medic, but didn’t dare risk being turned into a spanner. 

Scope watched Pulse and Ratchet out of the corner of his eye, barely turning his head from the ceiling in case Pulse was to look over and see him focused on them. He could just see them through the office window, Pulse with his gleaming paint and handsome frame, arms crossed over his chest, shaking his head at Ratchet who threw his hands around animatedly as he spoke. 

Whatever was happening in the office wasn’t good, Scope knew Ratchet well enough to know he didn’t get angry without a good reason and he was very angry at the new mech. Pulse took it in his stride and didn’t rise to the bait, he remained as calm and collected as he was when he first walked into the medbay.

Ten minutes later and the door clicked open, Pulse exited first and made a beeline to Scope’s berth, ignoring the other sick mechs. “Sit up and give me access to your processor slots.”

Scope had become quite a good actor during his stay in the medbay and knew how to act like the sickest mech there. It was usually good enough to fool the students, but Ratchet never fell for it so he was wary about trying it on the new mech. He raised his core temperature a few degrees anyway, then sat up, moving slowly and shakily. Pulse was intimidating and he looked to Ratchet for help, the medic just gave him a gentle nod to obey. 

“Pay no attention to Ratchet, he is of no consequence here,” the black and gold mech said as he plugged into Scope’s information ports with his own inbuilt cables.

Scope hissed in pain as the mech ran his medical scan, smashing through his protective firewalls like a sledgehammer to glass. He felt violated as Pulse pulled and prodded at the repairs, testing them for weaknesses. Balling his hands into fists in the blanket, Scope suffered through the pain of fresh,l tender connections being overloaded with surge of energy, they didn’t break, Ratchet had done a good job. The pain was unbearable, it was the same searing fire that he felt before, only this time he didn’t pass out. Fighting the connection only seemed to make it stronger and Scope shuddered, offlining his optics and vocaliser, praying for time to move faster.

As quickly as it started, the connection ended and the mech pulled out. Scope’s vents hitched and he quickly silenced them. 

“He’s fine, Ratchet, send him home.”

Ratchet grit his dentals, “with respect, Sir, he is still suffering memory issues and the new connections are taking longer to form than I anticipated. He needs medical attention, not ignoring and sending away.”

“Your complaints are noted and if this were a mech then I would agree with you and leave him in your care, but it is not. You’re forgetting that disposables are replaceable and cheaply built for a reason. A disposable as injured as this one was should have been sent for recycling, not repair. You’ve kept him from his owner for over a month, that’s too long, Ratchet. You should have sent him off with a recycle ticket so his owner could have traded him in for a replacement, he would have been without a drone for a few days, not weeks. Instead you’ve wasted your time doing unnecessary repairs when there are real mechs who need your help. I want him gone. Today. And no more of this nonsense, we are not a drone repair service. If I get one more complaint about you then we’re going to have to seriously discuss your future here.”

Scope was frozen to the spot, his energon lines running ice cold. It was over? His stay in paradise finally snatched away? Of course he had known he’d have to go home at some point, but that always seemed so far away and now it he had the painful reality that it had always been closer than he thought. The thought of going back to Tripwire after being with such amazing mechs was torture and he found himself wishing that he had offlined when he’d been too broken to care what happened. By sheer willpower he stopped himself making any sounds of upset, it stuck in his vocaliser like glue. Ratchet spoke, but Scope heard no words, his spark pulsed so loudly in his audials that it drowned out everything else.

Pulse stormed out. Ratchet just stormed. He slammed his hands on the berth and glared at the door. Scope jumped, scooting up the berth with a cry of shock. 

“I’m so sorry, Scope.” Ratchet spoke gently, “I tried to persuade him to let you stay. I told hjim that you were a valuable teaching tool for severe processor injuries, but Pulse is the head Medic here and I don’t have any authority when he gets involved with cases. Tripwire involved him by complaining about your absence...repeatedly.”

/It’s ok,/ Scope replied quietly. He wanted to scream and shout, vent his anger and sadness, punch the berth and kick the wall, but Ratchet had been so kind and he didn’t deserve that. No matter how much Scope was hurting, he wouldn’t make it harder on Ratchet. /When will my owner be here?/

“He’s already been commed, so I doubt it will be long. You don’t live far away do you?” 

Scope shook his head and crossed his legs as he folded his blanket and pushed it to the end of the berth. /Ratchet?/

The medic hummed in response to his name, spark sinking as he looked at Scope all curled in on himself, depressed as any mech he ever saw. 

/Thank you. You’ve been so nice to me, First Aid too, and thank you for not sending me to be recycled. I’m sorry you got in trouble because of me./

A light hand squeezed Scope’s shoulder and the medic gave him a soft smile, “don’t worry about it, that’s not the first complaint I’ve ever received and it won’t be the last.” He bent down and picked up the datapad that Scope had thrown earlier and handed it back, “here, I think Perceptor would want you to keep this and finish it.”

At the mention of Perceptor’s name, Scope’s sadness broke into a static cry and he doubled over far enough for his forehead to hit the berth. Ratchet knew grief when he saw it, Scope mourned for Perceptor.

Ratchet wrapped his arm around the slim mech and cursed Wheeljack’s spark for being right about how hard it would be for Scope. Quickly he pinged Perceptor, letting him know Tripwire was coming for Scope, he kicked himself for not doing it earlier, but he’d been distracted with his argument. “Don’t be upset, it’s not like you’ll never see him again. You’re still in his class aren’t you?”

Scope nodded, vents hitching as he forced himself to sit up and calm down.

“So you’ll still see him regularly and maybe one day you’ll end up together in a more permanent way. Perceptor’s the smartest mech I ever met, if anyone can figure out a way to make it work, it’s him” Ratchet offered. It would take more than a miracle, but giving Scope a little hope wouldn’t hurt. “Lets get you fuelled up before Tripwire gets here, I’ll mix in some painkillers for your processor, Pulse wasn’t gentle. You have a subspace don’t you?” 

Scope nodded mutely. Energon was the last thing on mind, but with Tripwire he was never sure when he was getting his next cube, so agreed to the fuel.

“Good, most disposable class mechs don’t. I’ll give you some energon and additive packs to take with you, when you run out, tell First Aid and he’ll give you some more.” 

/Thank you./ Scope’s voice was small, quivering and flecked with static. The sound of a broken mech. 

After fuelling on Ratchet’s good energon, Scope stood up and cleaned the drips from his side, making himself look presentable. Not an hour ago he had been happy, deep into the story of a tower mech falling in love with a slum mech. Perceptor had called the story ‘ridiculous, romantic drivel that lacked realism’, but Scope couldn’t get enough of it. 

It was easy to imagine himself as the slum mech, Rave, once a well known dancer, discarded by society when he was injured and couldn’t afford to pay his medical fee, left to beg on the streets. Perceptor played the part of Volt, the dashing, handsome hero. An energetic racer who ran through the slums daily and fell in love with the broken, dirty mech sitting on the street corner. Scope had just reached the part where Volt had taken Rave off the streets and taken him home, he fantasised about Perceptor doing the same, carrying him home in big, strong arms while whispering kind words in his ear. 

With Tripwire coming to collect him, that fantasy was ruined. 

Scope wasn’t sure how long it had been since Pulse left, it felt like forever while simultaneously feeling like seconds. He felt Tripwire before he arrived, the close proximity of his owner brought their bond back to life. Tripwire had never cared to keep the bond maintained and it had weakened over time, Scope had tried to keep it strong for a while, but there wasn’t much to be done from his side. It was just strong enough to register the other was close and that was how Tripwire liked it. 

/He’s here,/ Scope quietly said to Ratchet as the medic finished up the release sheets.

When Tripwire entered the medbay, Scope shrunk in on himself, becoming small and submissive before Tripwire forced him to be. He wanted for the shouting to start. Surprisingly it never came...at least not directed at him.

“Is he ready to go?” Tripwire’s scowl was as sharp as one of Ratchet’s scalpels.

Ratchet mirrored the aggressive stance of the jet, refusing to be forced into submission by a pushy youngling with no manners, “no, but you’re going to take him anyway so why ask? “

“Pulse thinks he’s ready and I wasn’t really asking you if he was ready, so much as asking what I need to sign to take him. You’ve had him for over a month, don’t tell me he isn’t fixed yet because I know you’re lying. It doesn’t take that long to insert a new processor card.” 

“If I had just done that, sure, it wouldn’t have taken more than a day, but I was under the assumption you wanted this mech back the way he had been. If I replaced his processor, Scope would be an entirely different mech, his memories and personality would be totally blank. You may as well have recycled him, either way he would have ended up being a new mech.”

Tripwire snorted, “any mech can do what Scope does, he just has a knack for it.”

Ratchet grit his dentals. Deep down he knew fighting with a mech like Tripwire was pointless, tower mechs were notorious for not caring about anyone out of their social bracket. “Be gentle with him, he’s not as strong as he was. He needs easing back into his tasks or you’ll break him again.”

“Gentle? It’s a disposable, as in, next time it breaks, I can throw it away and get a new one.” Tripwire pointed at Scope, finally registering they were in the same room together, “get up, we’re leaving.”

Scope slid off the berth and his spark hit the floor before his feet. There were times when Tripwire was kind to him, but Scope couldn’t remember any of them in that moment, all he saw was evil wrapped in a pretty frame. Eyes on the ground so Tripwire wouldn’t see how upset he was, he took up his usual spot behind the jet’s left wing. 

Snatching the datapad from Ratchet, Tripwire plugged in and uploaded his signature to Scope’s release form. He made a copy for himself then tossed the original on the berth, “is that all?” 

Ratchet nodded and Tripwire turned heading for the door, Scope didn’t dare look back and risk more ire from his owner. If he had, he would have seen Ratchet flipping off Tripwire. 

They left the medical centre at a brisk pace, Scope struggling to keep up on legs that felt like lead weights encased in jelly. It had been so long since he walked anywhere further than the berth at the end of the medbay that his frame already ached and they were still far from home. 

“If you break again, you’re going, I’m not wasting time on a mech who breaks himself for a few weeks off. Understand?”

/Yes, Sir. I’m sorry, Sir. I didn’t mean to break, it was an accident!/

“I don’t believe you, I spoke to a few medics about what happened to you and they all agree that to shut down the way you did, you must have been poking around in your processor. I had sympathy for you until I learnt that, I actually felt like something had gone painfully wrong with you. Instead I find out you’re a liar and a cheat. Is there anything you want to admit before I find out the truth?”

Scope was almost sobbing, not for himself but the thought of Perceptor being found out. /No, sir. I promise. I wasn’t poking around! I hit my head when I sat down and everything went fuzzy after that./

“So that’s the story you’re sticking with?”

/It’s not a story, Sir. I would never do that to you. I know my place, I would never upset you if I could help it./

“If I find out you’re lying, I will make you wish you had never been created.”

‘Wish granted’, Scope thought. There weren’t many days when he wasn’t wishing that. /I swear on my spark, Sir, I wouldn’t lie to you./

“Swear on your spark? What good is that? Your spark’s as worthless as that brittle frame of yours.” 

Head bowed so he didn’t have to look at Tripwire, Scope felt a rush of anger. Before meeting Perceptor and Ratchet, he would have agreed he was worthless, but Perceptor had showed him the truth and knowing that he had value made Tripwire’s words nothing but a cruel lie wrapped in hate. /Yes, Sir,/ he replied, just to try and get back on Tripwire’s good side and lessen the inevitable punishment.

Tripwire said nothing after that, as much as he liked to fight and win, there was no fun in a mech who couldn’t fight back. Scope stared at the pavement and tried to speed read the statue plaques as they walked past them. 

“Tripwire?” Perceptor’s voice was like fine energon to Scope, “It’s nice to see you out of class and I see you’re finally collecting your mech, that’s good.” Although he’d tried to make it to the medbay before Tripwire, he’d been caught by another teacher and escaping the meeting had been impossible. Scope and Tripwire were already half way up the Boulevard when he finally crossed paths with them.

The voice had caught Scope by surprise and he peeked out from behind Tripwire to check he wasn’t hallucinating. Briefly he wondered if his fantasy was reality and Perceptor was about to whisk him away to a new live full of happy things. But it didn’t look like that was to be.

“Professor,” Tripwire greeted with fake cheerfulness, “yes, I finally have him back, it’s about time though, he’s been missing a long time. Are you headed to the medbay? You aren’t injured are you?” Never one to miss a chance to butter up a mech who could help him, Tripwire was the face of concern. 

Perceptor brushed it off, “no, I’m fine. Ratchet and Wheeljack are good friends of mine and we’re going for a drink.” It was only a small lie, energon would be involved in large quantities, but the actual truth was that Perceptor planned to use Wheeljack’s love of wild plans to come up with a way to win Scope from Tripwire.

Scope barely looked up. All his dreams were so close, yet they never felt further away. 

“Are you sure your mech is quite healthy? He looks a little...off balance.”

Tripwire looked down at Scope then slapped his back hard enough to send Scope stumbling forward a few steps. The spot stung, but Scope made no noise, it wasn’t as bad as the throbbing in his head. 

“He’s fine,” replied Tripwire, “Pulse signed him off as healthy. He’s just had a long time to do nothing while he played sick for Ratchet, and he’s always been a lazy mech, I imagine he’s had the time of his life in the medbay.”

Perceptor frowned, Scope was anything but lazy, he worked harder than most of his best students. The lie was offensive enough, but to slap Scope for nothing, that was unforgivable to him. He wanted to tear into Tripwire for the slap, but he picked his words carefully, “perhaps you should be careful with him, I’d hate for you to lose him to the medbay again.”

“He was damaged when I brought him, if he breaks again then I’ll replace him. You know what the cheap factories are like, it’s all cheap materials and shoddy builds.”

Scope visibly jerked at that and looked at Perceptor with begging optics. ‘Please, save me’ he silently screamed, ‘take me with you.’

Perceptor looked away from Scope. As much as it pained him, getting Scope as his own would take time and a well thought out plan, not a desperate plea in the middle of the street. “That would be a shame, I’ve heard about what an excellent credit earner he is for you.”

“Oh he is, but a credit earner is only good when it makes credits and Scope hasn’t earned any for a long time.”

Perceptor nodded, “that’s true enough I suppose. Personally I’d want to keep my credit earner in good condition so it could work, but to each their own. Anyway, I should let you go otherwise I’ll be late for my drink with Ratchet. It was nice seeing you.” 

Tripwire smiled his warmest smile, “I will see you tomorrow then, enjoy your drink.”

With a curt nod, Perceptor hurried off towards the medbay. Scope managed a brief look over his shoulder in the hope Perceptor would turn back for him, but the red mech didn’t. When he’d heard mechs say they felt their spark being torn in half, Scope had rolled his optics at the melodramatic declaration, but now he understood. His spark ached in a way he’d never felt before, as if Perceptor was taking half away with him.

“Get a move on, Scope.” 

Scope looked up to see Tripwire already striding down the road and jogged to catch up. How much trouble would he be in if he turned and sprinted the other way, right into Perceptor’s arms? Too much probably. Then there was Perceptor to think about. 

Perceptor who just shunned him.

Logically he understood why Perceptor acted the way he did, but it didn’t stop it stinging. The mech who had been so kind and caring, finally treating him like he was disposable, as worthless as Tripwire said. 

Perceptor was amazing and any disposable would be proud to have him as an owner. Scope worried about that a lot, he was easily replaced and there was always a better choice out there; disposables so smart they put normal mechs to shame, ones that spoke so many languages that Scope’s disability became laughable. Any mech would want to be with Perceptor and once Perceptor realised that, Scope knew he would find a better mech to own than him. His life liked to give him nice things then snatch them away.

Cobalt block was quiet when they arrived. It was midweek and most students picked an early night over more study. The halls often fell silent about an hour after the evening classes finished. 

Tripwire jogged up the worn stairs and Scope had to take them two at a time just to keep up. The hallways smelled the same as he remembered, hot oil, dried energon and paint. There were new stains on the floor, unidentifiable splashes in varying colours that congealed in cracks between the tiles. Scope was careful to step around them.

Thanks to Perceptor, he could recognise the shapes painted on the doors were not random blotches of paint but a sequential series of numbers. Knowing that brought another wave of sadness for something he was now missing out on being taught more of. There was so much to learn and only so much he could teach himself without some guidance.

Tripwire’s room was worse than Scope had ever seen it, transcending messy to become a new type of ultimate filth. Discarded packaging thrown into a corner, datapads stacked haphazardly on every surface, bedding on the floor, empty cubes of energon turned into a stacked pyramid of modern art against the wall.

Scope was appalled. He’d always known Tripwire didn’t raise a finger when it came to cleaning - his first night at their slum home had taught him that - but to live in such squalor, willingly, was a disgrace. How hard was it to walk down the hall and throw the rubbish away? It was a two minute job that would half the mess! Nothing rammed home just how spoilt his owner was than his room and entitlement.

“Go and recharge Scope, I have a long day tomorrow and don’t need you sneaking around my room while I recharge. You can clean this mess up when I’m not here.”

/Yes, Sir. Good recharge./ He hadn’t been back with Tripwire long, but he couldn’t wait to get away from him.

He slipped into his closet and closed the door, leaning against it heavily. Emotionally wrecked, he felt exhausted and couldn’t help but think of Perceptor. How nice it would be to crawl into the mechs lap and snuggle against him. How safe and protected he would feel when those big red and blue arms wrapped around him and held him close. Perfect.

The blankets under the far shelf rustled and Scope’s eyes snapped open, meeting a blue visor that glowed brightly in the dark room. Scope kicked himself for letting his guard down and tried not to panic. He readied himself for a fight, but the opposite came. 

The datamech looked up from Scope’s spot where he was wrapped in the thick blanket Tripwire gifted him before he was injured. Scope stared at the mech and his complete lack of respect for personal space. /That’s my spot and my blanket,/ he managed in a low growl.

“Hello to you too!” The mech said cheerfully, “I’m Chronicle.”


	16. Chapter 16

Scope didn’t recharge at all. Faced with an unknown mech recharging in his spot, he couldn’t, even if he wanted to. Thankfully for him, he wasn’t tired. It helped that he’d spent the past few weeks in a long, healing recharge and Ratchet’s additive laced, medical grade energon still flowed through his fuel lines like rocket fuel. Those things combined with the rush of seething hate towards the intruder still sitting in his spot, amped him up like a bot charged up on speeders. He hadn’t felt so on edge since walking through the slums late at night expecting Tripwire to be shot by an enemy sniper. Ratchet had deactivated all the rifle related coding he could, but Scope still had the mentality of a fully formed rifle and never stopped assessing danger, that was hard coded into his systems.. 

Chronicle had tried to be friendly and had even offered to share the blanket and the comfortable bedding, going so far as to shuffle to the far end so Scope - as the larger mech - could have the majority of the bedding. Scope prickled at the suggestion and clenched his fists against the floor. If it wasn’t for the fear of Tripwire’s wrath, Scope would have launched himself at the intruder and made good use of his fists, reclaiming his spot with physical force. Instead of outright violence, Scope growled his engine low in disgust and sat as far away as possible, optics locked on the new imposter, silently daring him to move and make a mistake so that he could retaliate. 

“We don’t have to be enemies,” Chronicle offered in a whisper, “I don’t want to fight with you.”

That was a shame, thought Scope, because he did want to fight and the datastick was already his enemy whether he liked it or not. Tripwire wasn’t the best owner, but he was all Scope had and he wasn’t going to let that go without a fight.

As much as Chronicle needed recharge, he wasn’t about to test his luck with Scope. His new brother watched him as closely as the senate watched political splinter groups and Chronicle was smart enough to know Scope would probably be just as violent if provoked. He wasn’t afraid to admit he was scared of being offlined in his sleep or waking up to a limb being torn off. So he firmly planted himself in the blanket and wrapped it around his shoulders, gluing his optics to Scope, playing the rifle’s game of distrust and dominance. He wouldn’t be made to submit and feel small, better mechs had tried and failed. Scope wouldn’t win their metaphorical spike measuring competition.

A standoff to be the alpha mech and both participants were more than a little stubborn. 

They sat like that until morning, silent and tense around the other. It was the sound of Tripwire’s alarm buzzing loudly in the main room finally broke the deadlock. Chronicle moved first and jumped to his feet, too eager to leave the room as soon as he possibly could. Throwing the blanket to the side in a crumpled heap, the datastick made to leave, but Scope wasn’t having that. Appalled that Chronicle would leave without so much as making the berth, he took a step to the left and blocked the door. He took no small amount of pleasure in blocking Chronicle’s escape. It was more enjoyable than he expected to see the smaller mech squirm because of him. It wasn’t a nice thing to do, he knew that and he knew Perceptor would be mad at him for being so purposefully cruel, but it felt nice to have some power. 

“Ronny, come and get your energon,” Tripwire called. 

“Coming, Sir,” Chronicle replied in a cheerful tone. He looked towards Scope and pleaded, “please, I don’t want to get in trouble just as much as you don’t.”

Scope pointed to the blanket, /don’t leave it like that. You certainly didn’t find it that way./

“What?” Chronicle followed Scope’s finger to the ball of fabric and his visor narrowed, “you’re going to get us into trouble over that?” 

/I wasn’t called, you were./ It was a petty yet satisfying reply.

Chronicle debated ignoring Scope and trying his luck at pushing past the him, if he could just get to Tripwire then it would be safe, but Scope was larger and heavier than he was and his chance of winning that battle was slim. Tripwire called Chronicle’s name again and Chronicle relented, humouring Scope. He folded the blanket quickly - too sloppy for Scope to be happy with - and shoved it roughly to the larger mech’s chest as he passed out of the room. 

Scope clutched the fabric to his chest and once Chronicle was gone, buried his face in the material, using it to muffle an angry growl. The blanket had lost the new feeling that he had enjoyed so much, the material was softer and didn’t smell like it was fresh from the packet. It was worn and stained by something Scope took offence to, a waxy substance he couldn’t identify but felt wet and cold against his fingers. It didn’t feel like his blanket anymore and he didn’t want it back now it was tainted and used by someone else. 

Tripwire greeted Chronicle with a ‘good morning’ and Scope snorted when he heard it, for him it wasn’t a good morning at all. 

“You downloaded those pads last night didn’t you, Ronny?” 

“Yes, sir, I have your homework and recommended reading too.”

Scope cocked his head to the side as he listened, fixated on Tripwire calling Chronicle by a cutesy nickname. Forgetting about the blanket, Scope tried to make sense of the conversation he was hearing. In all their time together, Scope couldn’t remember a single time that Tripwire had sounded affectionate or had ever called anyone by a nickname. Scope could still remember meeting Catalyst at the station and hearing Tripwire growl dangerously at his so called friend, for shortening his name to Trip. The jet hated nicknames, so why did Chronicle have one? 

Shaking the thoughts away, Scope refolded the blanket properly and spitefully set it on the top shelf where Chronicle wouldn’t be able to reach. After taking a moment to compose himself, he left the storage room and closed the door behind him. Tripwire was leaning against his desk, waiting for Chronicle while he fuelled, seemingly unfazed by the mech injecting next to him. Scope did a double take, after all the times he’d been made to wait until Tripwire left the room or was sent into a dark corner to fuel, it wasn’t fair that Chronicle could do it in the open.

But then nothing about Chronicle’s treatment was fair.

It was Scope’s first real look at his new roommate and Chronicle was beautiful. It made him hate him even more. Framewise, Chronicle was just like any other datastick, but his paintwork and custom embellishments put him into a league of his own. Painted in a deep, purple that glittered and shimmered under the lights, he was hypnotic and as Scope stepped closer he could see the cause was tiny flecks of silver and pink metal embedded in the glossy finish. Trimmed in a pearlescent white that caught the light like a pastel rainbow and laced with pink biolights that contrasted perfectly against his paintwork, Chronicle was easily the most handsome mech Scope had ever seen. It was as if the datamech had been made out of one of the nebulas Scope had seen in Perceptor’s datapads and he felt insanely jealous of that. 

Perceptor seemed to like him as he was, but he wondered if he looked as good as Chronicle whether Perceptor would have tried harder to own him. He was scratched and dented, blotchy with repairs, what armour he still had was painted the standard greyish purple of an off the shelf rifle, chipped and pitted like a visual representation of his life. Under the sparse armour, his protofrom was a matte black and in places had worn away to reveal dull grey metal. How could a mech like Perceptor want him when he could own a mech as stunning as Chronicle? 

Seeing Chronicle for the first time and witnessing how beautiful he looked standing next to the equally cared for frame of Tripwire, brought one question to the forefront of Scope’s mind. Chronicle hadn’t been cheap, not like he had been, Chronicle was custom, time consuming work. Where had Tripwire found the credits to afford such a mech? The question churned Scope’s fuel tank, what energon was still inside felt heavy and thick, had the credits he earned by cleaning brought his own replacement?

Tripwire pointed to a cube on the desk, the standard lowgrade that Scope was used to fuelling on, not the midgrade Chronicle was injecting. “There’s your fuel, Scope. Drink it then clean this mess up while I’m in class. I’ll be back this afternoon and I’ll make sure you get to your next job, I want this room finished by then so don’t slack off.” 

Scope’s head snapped up as he heard that. /Sir? What about class?/

“What about it?”

/Sir, I.../ Please, he almost begged, take me.

“Oh you think you’re coming with me? No. I have Ronny for that now, why would I take you when I have a proper datastick who can take all of my notes for me? You can’t even read Neocybex so what use are you to me in a classroom setting?”

‘I can read,’ Scope almost said, but caught himself just in time. That was a secret he intended to keep for himself. 

It never occurred to him that he wouldn’t be going and the realisation hurt more than Chronicle’s appearance in his life. Perceptor was his friend and he wanted to see him again. Seeing the other disposables would be nice too and the time enjoying himself in Perceptor’s office was always fun, but it was time with Perceptor that he craved. 

His spark sank to his toes.

Whatever emotion it was that flooded his processor, Scope wanted it gone. It made him feel numb and cold. He stood, frozen, too upset to reply to Tripwire. Being taken from Perceptor without being able to say goodbye was hard enough, but to know that he now wouldn’t see him again was a kick in the face.

“Sir,” said Chronicle, breaking the silence, “I don’t have a full Primal Vernacular dictionary installed and as Scope only speaks in the old tongue, I believe it would be beneficial if I did, just to make communication easier.”

Tripwire nodded, “I was going to take you to the library for a download of it anyway, you’re going to need it for this class.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

“You know he understands you don’t you? Scope has a translating unit that works just fine.”

Chronicle nodded, “I do, Sir, but I don’t always understand him and if we are to live together then that may be a problem in the future.” 

Tripwire shrugged, “alright, if you want it for that. We need to get going now though, I have some errands to run before we get to class.”

“Yes, Sir,” Chronicle said cheerfully, setting his empty cube on top of the pyramid and putting his injector away in its case. “See you later, Scope.” 

“We’ll be back at midday break,” Tripwire told him as he ushered Chronicle out of the room.

Scope glared at them as the door closed and left him standing alone in the middle of Tripwire’s disgusting mess.

The minutes ticked by like hours and Scope still didn’t move or take his optics off the door. To have everything and then to lose it was torture. He blamed Perceptor, Ratchet and First Aid too. Before them, he knew no better, he didn’t know what a caring owner could feel like and hadn’t been aware of just how bad his treatment had been. Then they came along and showed him what it was like to be treated like a real mech, respected and valued, to be cared for and given attention instead of ignored and looked down on. He wasn’t the same mech as he had been before he knew them, now he knew there was more in the world than he’d ever been shown and he mourned its loss.

From day one of his enslavement to Tripwire, Scope had suffered through his treatment, brushing it off by telling himself it was just Tripwire’s way. He’d been wrong. So very wrong. Chronicle was testament to the fact that Tripwire could be a good owner if he wanted to be. Chronicle was treated with respect, given an affectionate nickname and the upgrades he wanted. Scope knew that even if he had had the courage to ask for something the answer would have been a slap for daring to imply that what he had wasn’t enough. So the question remained, was it him? Was he too ugly, too useless, too easily replaced? Had he not worked hard enough? Was Tripwire always going to hate him just because he could? Had his month in the medbay sealed his fate and brought a replacement?

What was so special about Chronicle that Tripwire suddenly became a decent mech?

Scope grabbed the cube off the desk and weighed it in his hands, staring at it through narrow optics. It made for an amazing projectile. Before he even realised what he’d done, he’d pulled his arm back and launched the cube with as much force as he could muster. It hit the door with a satisfying clang and exploded in a shower of pink. Scope dubbed it the Great Cube Massacre of Apartment Five Threety One, and watched gleefully as the energon ran in fast rivulets down the walls to pool on the floor. 

Energon covered the ceiling too, dripping to the floor like colourful raindrops. Scope realised too late how difficult he’d made his morning’s work, but even the prospect of scrubbing energon would stop him doing it again if he had another cube. His act of rebellion felt good and lightened his spark, he held the feeling close as proof Chronicle couldn’t ruin everything. 

The nerve of the new mech, coming into their lives and turning everything on its head, stealing his job and taking away his chance to see Perceptor - even if it was only for a few minutes a day. There were a times when he hated many mechs, but even Catalyst didn’t come close to how much he despised Chronicle’s very existence.

/You’re so special, Ronny,/ he muttered sarcastically as he started the clean up, /I don’t know what we did before you and your specialness arrived. Gosh you’ve just made everything so much better! I never knew I had a spark until you ripped it out and stomped your stupid, pretty feet all over it./

Cleaning up didn’t take long once he found that calling Chronicle every insulting thing he could think of was a fun way to pass the time. He bagged the trash while calling Chronicle ‘as useful as a rubbish bag with a hole at the bottom’, collected the datapads while calling him ‘a shelving unit with no shelves’ and wiped the surfaces as he called him ‘a grubby, germ infested sponge that smeared dirt instead of cleaned’. 

It was fun while it lasted, but as Scope looked at the datapads, a better plan formed in his mind and he felt his spark flutter with mischievousness. He grabbed the closest datapad and flicked through the pages until he felt satisfied he’d messed up Tripwire’s reading order. He knew from experience it was annoying to have to search through pages to get back to where he’d left off. For good measure, he picked a few more pads and did the same. He didn’t do it to all the pads simply because he wanted to keep his actions under the radar. 

Cleaning up the mess he’d made himself was the hardest part, the energon had managed to get everywhere, filling every small crack and crevice it could find. In order to reach the ceiling, he needed to drag the chair over from the desk and he feared an early return from Tripwire while he stood on it. Luck was on his side and he finished before he was caught. Hiding the evidence of his fury at the bottom of a trash bag and covering it with Tripwire’s own rubbish, Scope felt giddy with excitement at what he’d gotten away with. 

Destroying the cubes was his favourite part. They came crashing down when he pulled on the pyramid, surrounding him in stale energon and cubes ripe for crushing. /This is your head, Ronny. Look at your energon leaking out all over my nice clean floor. Are you going to clean that up? No, because you’re the favourite and you don’t have to. So messy, wouldn’t even fold your own blanket. I shouldn’t be surprised, I mean you let Trip live like this after all./ He jumped and kicked, crushing the cubes into carryable pieces - at least that’s what he told himself it was for.

Crushing and ranting was cathartic. It was such good stress relief that he wished he’d saved it for last. He had a better plan though, one Perceptor would be pleased with him for.

Once everything was finished and the floor was wiped clean of cube pieces, Scope went back to the desk where he left a small mess to be caught clearing up when Tripwire returned. It was his cover story for why he was standing at the desk near to the delicate instruments he’d been ordered to stay away from. His real agenda was to read the datapad he’d selected earlier from the pile he’d collected. 

_The Comprehensive Dictionary of Scientific and Technical Terms._

Scope was determined to learn it all. 

Without the knowledge of what the big, complicated words in the science journals meant, Scope had no chance of actually understanding anything in Tripwire’s other datapads. It would take a long time for him to learn the dictionary, but time was one luxury he did have and Perceptor would be so proud of him if they did met again. Then Scope could stand proud and say he learnt The Science. 

How hard could it really be?

His reading skill still needed improving and he struggled through the first page, barely absorbing anything as he tried to work out how the words should be pronounced. With the smaller words it was easy, there was really only one way to pronounce them. The big ones posed a challenge, depending on the stressed letters and word groups, pronunciation changed and he wasn’t knowledgeable enough to determine which was right.

He’d barely made it through the first two pages when Tripwire returned with an excitable, bouncing Chronicle at his heels. Scope quickly closed down the dictionary and cleared the mess he’d been saving. /Welcome back, Sir./

Tripwire looked around and nodded slightly, “it looks good.”

/You’re a great cleaner! No wonder you make so many credits!/ Chronicle said, unknowingly upsetting Scope by showing off his new Primal Vernacular upgrade and insinuating that cleaning was all Scope was good for.

Scope didn’t take it as a compliment. Finishing the desk, he grabbed the trash bags and carried them to the others, pointedly ignoring Chronicle and he scooped them all up. /Sir, I couldn’t take the rubbish to disposal without being locked out, so do you mind if I do it now?/

“Take it,” Tripwire replied with a dismissive wave of his hand, “Ronny will hold the door open for you.”

Scope muted his vocaliser quickly, catching himself before he sarcastically repeated the sentence like he had been doing earlier. Chronicle opened the door and Scope ‘accidentally’ smacked him with the stack of rubbish as he passed. /Sorry,/ he muttered.

“It’s ok, I shouldn’t have been in your way,” Chronicle replied, “I can help you carry it if you want?” 

/It’s fine, I can manage./ Chronicle’s answer annoyed Scope and if he had known that the datastick would take it so well, he would have hit him harder. Still, there was always next time. 

When he came back from his task, Tripwire was waiting to take him to his next job. 

Tripwire had always kept Scope busy, but Scope had double the rooms he’d had before his month off. Flitting from job to job was tiring and with only an hour per room, he had to work fast so had little time to rest. Most of the rooms were empty, their owners in class or out with friends, but some mechs - not trusting Scope to be left on his own - had left their disposables there to keep an eye on him. Scope didn’t mind them, as long as they weren’t trying to steal his owner from him, they were fine and he was friendly enough towards them. At his fourth room of the day, he met a sad looking datastick that sat in the corner and didn’t move. Scope felt for the mech, he knew how it felt to be that way, he felt it himself most days. How many other disposables were like that, wishing for their own offlining? Scope made himself a promise, messing with mechs who didn’t own disposables or took them out with them was fine, but he would never prank a mech who left their disposable in the room alone. He was enjoying his rebellious acts, but he didn’t want innocent mechs blamed for his games. 

Scope stuck to simple tricks for his first day. In the first room, he collected all the datapads into a stack and flicked two or three of them to the last page in the hope the mech would read the ending and be spoiled. The second room was perfectly organised with alphabetical shelves, picking a datapad at random Scope slid it into the wrong place. Without careful reading of the titles, finding the odd datapad would be impossible. In the third room, two datapads ‘accidentally’ fell down the back of the desk. The fourth room had the sad looking disposable in it so Scope left it alone. 

Really it wasn’t much and was likely not to be noticed at all, but Scope enjoyed the feeling regardless. 

Being out on his own, not worrying about Tripwire, doing his job and messing with clients, it was liberating in its own way. It was almost as if he were a real mech and didn’t have an owner at all. 

One of the many rules of Cobalt Block was that no disposable was allowed in the hallways unaccompanied, but it wasn’t strictly enforced and most mechs didn’t abide by it, it was too easy to use their disposables as messengers or chore runners. 

Greeting another lone disposable in empty hallways was joyful experience to Scope, most were happy to stop for a moment and talk about their imaginary ‘real mech’ lives. Scope loved it, it was fun to pretend to be someone else and most mechs kept to the same story, naming their pretend mate and adopted newsparks, updating it each time so there was always something new to talk about. Fantasy lives that, for a moment, took away the pain of their real lives.

Scope updated his to account for the time he’d been away. Originally his story was simple, he had a mate and a cat waiting for him at home, they worked hard and made a decent living, they lived in a nice tower and had an active social life. No adopted newsparks, they were too busy for that and neither of them were really the type for it anyway. To fill in the month he’d been in the medbay he decided that he and his mate (of course, he now imagined that mate to be Perceptor but he never said that much) were both scientists who had just come back from an off world expedition to find they had an irritating neighbour move in next door. 

It was Stylus he met first, a mech who invented a mate for himself and had a house full of adopted newsparks. Scope liked Stylus and thought his story was unintentionally the funniest he had heard, the datastick had a habit of renaming his adopted newsparks every time they spoke, which led to Scope imagining hundreds of freshly framed datasticks running around their tiny flat or one mech with so many names they were never anything but confused about who they really were.

“Fancy meeting you here, it’s good to see you back. Nice trip?” Stylus asked.

/Oh it was wonderful, thanks for asking. Me and my mate went on a science expedition and explored an uncharted planet that was covered in organic life. It was dirty work and I’ll never feel clean again but that’s the life of a scientist. We have a tour to do soon, we’re going to take our findings all over Cybertron. How’s your family?/

“I’m really glad you enjoyed your trip, good luck with the tour too. Things are hectic with me, Cable came down with energon rot and you know what he’s like. Melodramatic mech he is, rolling around claiming to be dying of cosmic rust and gear grit. The newsparks have all caught it too, so my house is just full of sick mechs. It’s nice to get out to be honest. Terrible as that is, but I’m off to get their meds so I’m sure they won’t begrudge me a few moments to myself.”

/I’m sorry to hear that, give them my love. Cable’s a fighter so I’m sure he’ll be better soon./

“Yeah, back to pit fighting like the wannabe hero he is. I swear to Primus that mate of mine would be dead without me.” 

After a playful laugh, they parted ways, back to whatever task they were actually supposed to be doing. As enjoyable as that was, it was the mechs who didn’t understand Primal that Scope found to be the most entertaining, they tended to translate what he said however they liked, so he listed random objects while posing it as a question.

/Datapad building paintwork, spark-eater gobble-hole?/

“Oh a foreigner! How quaint. Are you from Vos? I hear it’s beautiful there.” 

/Straw envelope pencil. Orange, glitch-mouse doorbell fuel tank engine oil./

“That’s wonderful, moving to a new city is always hard, so I do hope you like it here. Everyone’s very friendly and I’m sure you’ll make friends in no time.”

/Rust eating dipstick sucking foot licker./

“Oh where are my manners? I apologise, I’m Redline.” 

/Blanket cobalt datapad doorframe projector ruststick street?/

“Oh I’m fine, thanks, just running an errand for the family, you know how it is.”

/Energon dispenser acid rain./

“Yeah, I need to get going too. Have a good day, it was nice meeting you.”

It was the little things that brought Scope joy, playing his games and entertaining himself with mischievous jokes no one else would find funny. Now he was being replaced by Chronicle, he didn’t feel the same need to behave as he once had. Before he was shipped off to recycling, he was going to enjoy himself or die trying. 

\----

It was late when he finally made his way back to Tripwire’s room and Chronicle was waiting at the door for him, “Tripwire has gone to a late night study group, he said he won’t be back until late so we should recharge instead of waiting for him, but he left you some energon on the desk.” 

/Great,/ Scope said flatly, walking past Chronicle as if he wasn’t there. Grabbing the energon and injector from the desk, he disappeared into the storage room where he reclaimed the spot under the shelf. 

Chronicle busied himself in the main room and Scope didn’t care what he was doing. He refuelled on the slag Tripwire called energon and pushed the empty cube away. He would have much preferred one of Ratchet’s cubes that were hidden in his subspace, but couldn’t risk being caught with it, not until he was certain Chronicle wouldn’t tell Tripwire. It meant his past nights of fuelling on his cube of spoils were over. Now he’d have to throw all the half empty cubes away or risk them spoiling in his subspace and ruining his good energon. It was just another perk Chronicle had ruined for him. 

“Perceptor’s class is nice isn’t it?” Chronicle said, making conversation from the doorway. It was the wrong thing to say but he wasn’t to know that, he just wanted to make friends with Scope. Back home all his brothers had loved each other, but Scope was nothing like them and he had no experience with such standoffish mechs. “He is such a nice mech to take care of all the disposables like that. I’m never seen a mech take such good care of mechs he doesn’t own.”

Scope stiffened at the mention of Perceptor. /Shut up,/ he growled, low and dangerous. The last thing he wanted to hear from Chronicle was how great Perceptor was and how much fun the disposable party time had been. While he had been hard at work, Chronicle would have been enjoying himself with friends that were originally Scope’s. 

“Oh….ok,” Chronicle replied sheepishly. Fighting for something to say, he leaned back on the wall and watched Scope in the dark room. “Why won’t you talk to me?”

/I hate you. No, actually I despise you. Now leave me alone, we aren’t going to be friends./

That upset Chronicle and he hugged himself, shifting on his feet, “why? I haven’t done anything to you but be nice.” 

/Nice!?/ Scope growled, sitting up and pointing an accusing finger at the sad looking datastick. He only meant to say that he hated Chronicle for replacing him, but the words fell from his vocaliser before he could stop them. /You came here and replaced me, you took my role and got me demoted to full time cleaner. You stole my bed and my blanket then offered to share instead of giving it back. Tripwire adores you, he hasn’t once been cruel to you, even when you asked for an upgrade, I would have been beaten for that, yet you got away with it because you’re new and pretty. Not only did you get away with it, Tripwire agreed to give you whatever you wanted and he’s affectionate to you. You’re his favourite, I get that, but you haven’t been here remotely as long as I have. You get good energon and smiles, I get lowgrade and orders that go against my purpose. I’ve worked hard for Tripwire, I’ve earned him credits and helped him whenever I could, but he barely registers my existence except to tell me to work harder. Then you come along, looking like you cost a million credits, so of course he wants to show you off, I bet half the campus is jealous of you. Compared to you, I look like a scrapyard reject. The fact you can legitimately ask why I hate you is the reason that I hate you. You want to be cheerful brothers, but you didn’t even stop to think about what consequences your actions had on me and my life./

“I…” Chronicle’s voice waivered, static laced. Having never been on the receiving end of such accusations from another disposable, he wasn’t sure how to react. “I didn’t come here to replace you. I’m in the same position that you are, I have an owner and I’m still classed as disposable. I could have just as easily been in your place and you in mine.”

/But you aren’t and I’m not! You’re a privileged mech who doesn’t face being sent for scrap! I do! If I don’t keep working and earning credits then that’s where I’ll end up. If you mess up, you can be sold on to anyone and they’ll pay a lot for you simply because you look beautiful. You don’t risk death if you upset him, I do!/ 

“He wouldn’t scrap you, you’re too good at making credits.”

Scope punched the floor with a snarl, redirecting his anger before his fist found Chronicle’s face. /I’m more than a credit earner! At least I was until you came here and ruined everything!/

Chronicle flinched away, unsure what to say. Whatever he said was most likely going to be met with a raised voice and accusations that were far from the truth.

/How much did you even cost?/ Scope continued his tirade, /thousands I bet, probably more. You know what I cost? The same as a week’s worth of energon. We’re not in the same league, Chronicle. You don’t understand what it’s like to actually be disposable./

Chronicle waited for Scope to calm down before he spoke again. “Tripwire didn’t buy me,” he said softly, “I don’t belong to him. I belong to Higgs, one of his guardians.”

/What?/

/Higgs, he’s my owner. I’m not here to replace you, I’m here because Higgs thought it would be nice for Trip to have a piece of home./

That almost made Scope feel better, it didn’t take the edge of his anger but knowing he hadn’t brought his own replacement was a start to calming down. If Chronicle was on loan, then he had less to worry about. He was still Tripwire’s only owned mech and it made being scrapped less likely. /I thought Tripwire hated his guardians?/

“No, not at all! I mean, maybe, sort of. It’s a bit of a long story. See, Trip’s a tower mech, at least he used to be. Higgs and Zenith spoiled him, buying him whatever he wanted and giving him the best life any mech could want. Trip grew up without learning his actions had consequences, Zenith and Higgs had always bailed him out, but then he did something really bad, I don’t know what it was, but Zenith was really angry about it and practically disowned him, he was adamant that Trip should be punished. That’s how he ended up in the slums. Zenith is like Trip, they’re both hotheads, but Zen is worse, Trip’s got a cruel streak, but it’s nothing compared to Zenith’s. Higgs is the total opposite of both of them, he’s laid back and super kind. So when Zenith cut Trip off, Higgs only agreed with it to keep the peace, he didn’t really want to do it, so he secretly kept in contact with him and sent him credits, not a lot, but enough so he wouldn’t starve or end up on the streets.”

/It sounds like a wonderful family,/ Scope said sarcastically, /an eviler Tripwire is just what everyone needs./

“Zenith isn’t always like that, he can be nice.”

/So Tripwire just hates Zenith then?/ Scope asked. It sounded like a terribly disfunctional family to him, but then he wasn’t the best mech to judge what a healthy relationship was.

/Maybe he did, but not any more, they’ve been talking again for a while. When Zenith found out that Trip had been accepted here and was learning under Perceptor, he softened up a bit and realised Trip wasn’t a total lost cause. He was actually proud of Trip for managing to get into such a prestigious Academy without the backing of his family line, the Academy doesn’t take slum mechs, so Trip’s entry essay must have been amazing and Zenith was really impressed he’d managed it at all. So Zenith started talking to him again and Higgs was just happy he could talk to Trip again without worrying his mate would find out. I’m here to help Trip, Higgs asked me if I wouldn’t mind working for him for a while and it’s been a long time since I saw him so I agreed.” 

Scope didn’t believe that for a second and looked unconvinced, no mech asked their disposable to do anything, they just gave orders. /Your owner asked you?/

Chronicle nodded, “he doesn’t call himself my owner, he calls us partners. He’s never ordered me to do anything and I’m always free to say no if I really don’t want to do something. Higgs believes all mechs with sparks are equal, you’d like him.”

/He sounds nice,/ Scope agreed. It was a lot to take in at once and if Chronicle was telling the truth, then his life sounded idyllic. How many mechs would give anything to have an owner who called them equals? /Is belonging to Higgs why is Tripwire so nice to you?/

“Kind of. I mean Trip’s never been a loving, caring kind of mech, at least not outwardly, but he was never this bad. He’s so much like Zenith now that it’s sad, he used to be so much nicer until Blu-” Chronicle stopped the sentence dead, the topic was one he promised never to talk of. “Trip doesn’t hate his guardians, he loves them, he just doesn’t know how to say it. He has a special bond with Higgs though, always has. If Higgs had been around all the time to help raise him, Trip would be a much different mech, but he wasn’t and so Zenith taught him to manipulate mechs into giving him what he wanted. Trip’s very handsome, it doesn’t take much for him to get what he wants.”

Scope listened carefully, it was actually interesting to hear about his owner. It never occurred to him that Tripwire had legal guardians and a family. He’d always just assumed Tripwire was evil at creation and would be evil at death, the true spawn of Unicron. If what Chronicle was saying was true, then Higgs would turn Tripwire into a good and caring mech? Scope couldn’t believe that for a second, it seemed like an absolutely impossible mission. /That doesn’t explain how why he’s nice to you./

“Oh. Well, we have a history, I’m a lot older than Trip and I saw him grow up, Higgs says I am his little big brother. When Trip was adopted and brought home, Zen and Higgs spent every waking second with him and I saw how much they loved him. So I made an effort to love him too and I made a promise that I would always be there for him if he needed me, because that’s what big brothers do.” Chronicle paused as he remembered their time together and when he spoke again it was wistful and affectionate, “when Trip was young, I used to sneak him energon treats from the kitchens and tell him stories about space so he’d recharge,. He was scared of the dark and I have a lot of biolights I can use, so I’d sit in his room like a night light until he fell asleep. He could never pronounce Chronicle though, he tried but the best he managed was RonRon, he’d run around the penthouse screaming it when he couldn’t find me. Then that nickname got shortened to Ronny and everyone started using it, hardly anyone calls me Chronicle any more. So to answer your question, Trip looks after me because I looked after him, that and I fact I belong to Higgs, Trip would never want to upset him by hurting me.” 

/You’re older than him? You act like a newspark./

“Why, because I’m cheerful and friendly? That’s not a newspark thing. There are plenty of mechs, young and old who are cheerful and friendly to everyone they meet. I like to meet new people and I like making friends, there’s nothing wrong with that. If you like to left alone then there’s nothing wrong with that either, but don’t blame me for something I never did. I didn’t come here with the plan to ruin your life, I just came here wanting to help. Higgs wants me to remind Trip that he doesn’t have to be like Zenith, that’s my secret mission.”

/Your secret mission is to turn Tripwire good? That’s impossible./

“Is it though? Really think about that for a second. That blanket you love, Trip gave it to you didn’t he? I know he works you hard, but he doesn’t work you for longer or harder than he works himself, does he? You get a good long recharge each night? Good fuel? He rushed you down to the medbay and demanded you were well cared for and repaired, didn’t he? Trip doesn’t show love and caring, but he’s not as cold as you think he is.”

/Nearly all the injuries I’ve ever had are because of him,/ Scope replied, frowning at the datastick, /I’ve been hit, slapped, knocked around, locked in my alt mode and stored in a small closet, dragged down the street while bleeding from a wound he inflicted. He’s violent when he’s mad and he’s mad most of the time./

Chronicle didn’t have a defence ready for that. “That’s Zenith’s influence. In the tower, there are a lot of disposable class mechs, all of them know not to upset Zenith because it never ends well. One of the cleaners broke a statue once, it was an accident and they apologised, but Zenith was so angry about it that he locked them in the closet and forgot they was there. It was only by chance that he was found a few days later. Zenith looks down on everyone and Trip learnt to do it too, it’s a jet thing. All fliers think they’re above everyone else.”

/Saying ‘it’s a jet thing’ doesn’t make it right./

“Of course not, I’m just trying to explain it a bit.”

Scope narrowed his optics at Chronicle, /do you really think Tripwire considers you his big brother?/ 

“I don’t know. Higgs said it, not Trip. Whether he does or not doesn’t matter to me, he’s important to me and that’s all that I care about.” 

/Must be nice,/ Scope mused, somewhat sourly, /to be a disposable that doesn’t understand being disposable. There’s irony in that I think, you’re the disposable that’s priceless./

Chronicle pushed away from the wall and took a step forward, leaning on the doorframe instead, “so now you’re going to hate me because I haven’t suffered like you? You’re going to end up hating a lot of mechs if you think like that. We’re both the same class, my being in a good home doesn’t change that. If the senate decided all datasticks needed to be offlined, I wouldn’t be immune, no matter how much Higgs loves me. We need to all stick together, not fight over what classifies a mech as disposable.”

/You’re not disposable though, you have a forever home. You might be classed as one but that doesn’t mean you are. There’s no disposable in this building who wouldn’t call you privileged and wish to be in your place. How many of your batch mates do you think got good homes like you? How many are still online?/

“That’s…” It hit a nerve and Chronicle stopped to truly think about it, “I hadn’t thought about my batch mates for a long time.” 

/I think about mine. They’re rifles so they probably went to the military, that means a lot of them have probably been offlined already. They’d probably look at me and think I’m privileged in that I have a home and don’t risk being offlined daily./

Chronicle looked up from the floor to meet Scope’s optics, “you really think they would think that about you?” 

Scope shrugged, /I don’t know. I think a lot of things./

“I hope my batch mates all got to go to good homes like I did.” 

That was wishful thinking thought Scope, there was no way a batch of a hundred and fifty mechs all got into good homes and were all still online. Especially not if Chronicle was as old as he claimed to be. Scope wouldn’t be surprised if they’d all been replaced for newer models and Chronicle was the last survivor.

The conversation stopped when the door unlocked. 

Chronicle stood up straight and turned to greet him, “welcome back, Sir, how was your study?”

“It was good,” Tripwire replied, looking down on Chronicle inquisitively, “why are you standing there? What are you up to? You should be recharging.” 

“I’m not up to anything, I’m a good mech, you know that.” Scope could hear the grin in Chronicle’s tone, “it’s just so dark in there, it’s warmer out here too.”

“It’s not that cold, Ronny.” 

“Well not to you, but you’re so big and strong, covered in thick plating to keep you all toasty. I’m small and my plating is thin, I get cold. It’s worse for Scope though, I mean, at least I have armour,” Chronicle said.

Tripwire looked into the closet to where Scope was hunched down under the shelf, “you’re cold?”

Scope flinched, ready to be shouted at. He gave a slight nod, /yes, sir./

Then the unexpected happened and Scope had to do a double take to make sure he heard it right. It was so unbelievable to him that he could do nothing but stare at the spot where Tripwire had been just moments before.

“Alright,” said Tripwire as he lightly pushed Chronicle inside the closet, “after class tomorrow, we’ll stop off at the supply store, ok Ronny? Recharge now though, I’m tired and you’re always so loud.”

“Yes, sir. Recharge well.” Chronicle sat down and gave Scope a cocky and pleased look. “See, he’s really not so bad,” he whispered once the door was closed.

Scope still couldn’t believe it. He looked between the door and Chronicle in disbelief, frame tense in anticipation for Tripwire’s return. Amazingly, it never came. Just seeing Tripwire treat a disposable with kindness was strange enough, but to see him listen and agree to help was something he could never have imagined in his wildest dreams. Sure he had imagined Tripwire being the amazing owner he’d always wished for, but it always sounded so out of character and wrong to apply it to the real Tripwire.

Scope stood and pulled down the blanket from the top shelf. Maybe he had been too hasty to judge Chronicle, from their talk he didn’t seem so bad. There were still things he didn’t like about him and he couldn’t forgive him for taking Perceptor away, but if Chronicle listened and accepted he was a spoiled mech, then maybe they could get on. If the datastick was telling the truth then many of Scope’s assumptions about him were wrong and he needed to reevaluate them. In the best case scenario, Chronicle might actually achieve his goal to make Tripwire a good mech, which would mean a happier life for him in the long run. He didn’t expect Tripwire to love him like he loved Chronicle, he’d settle for just a little kindness. Either way, it wouldn’t hurt to have Chronicle on his side, especially if Chronicle could make their lives comfortable.

/Here, you shouldn’t be cold,/ Scope said, handing the blanket over, /but don’t think this makes us friends./

Chronicle gladly took the blanket and wrapped it around himself, taking the offering as a sign of a future friendship once Scope understood that he wasn’t there as a replacement. “I wouldn’t dream of it,” he purred.


	17. Chapter 17

The longer Chronicle stayed, the more distant and unwanted Scope felt. 

There was no getting around the fact he’d been replaced by the cheerful datastick, no hiding the fact his owner had so easily forgotten about him as soon as something new and prettier arrived on his doorstep. It was Scope’s greatest fear manifested, soon Tripwire wouldn’t need him at all and he’d be taken for recycling.

Tripwire rarely called for him now that he had Chronicle at his side, smarter and more personable than Scope could ever hope to be, he was by far the better companion. When Tripwire did call for Scope, it was only to give another order or list of demands, outside of that they never communicated. What relationship - by the smallest definition of the word - they had been cultivating had wilted and died with the datastick’s arrival, leaving Scope a lonely, lost and disheartened little mech. 

Scope had tried to rekindle it, he worked himself harder than he ever had before and preempted Tripwire’s needs as best he could. He earned glowing reviews from his cleaning jobs that in return brought in more new clients and thus more money to his owner. Scope took the new jobs without complaint, all in the hopes of crawling his way back into Tripwire’s good books. As bad as Tripwire was, he was all Scope had left and Scope craved the attention like a starved mech craved energon. 

The extra work was exhausting, but on the rare occasion Tripwire said ‘good job’ or gave him a better than usual ration of energon, it was almost worth it. 

For Scope, it seemed as if Tripwire was actively pushing him away and going out of his way not to deal with him. Now that Chronicle had joined them, he made their meetings brief and emotionless. So Scope took any acknowledgement as a good thing, be it good or bad.

A few weeks after Chronicle’s arrival, Scope woke to his internal alarm blaring over his HUD, it was early as he dragged himself out of the warm bed to start his day’s work. Unusually the closet was empty and Scope assumed that Tripwire had worked another all nighter of study with Chronicle. 

He found out just how wrong - or right - he was when he slipped out into the main room and saw them recharging together on the berth, surrounded by a pile of datapads and class notes. Scope felt his spark sink and his fuel lines turn cold, his vents hitched sharply and he grabbed the wall for support as the sudden lurch of his fuel tanks pulled him off balance. Grabbing the dictaphone Tripwire always left for him on the desk - the one filled with his verbal orders for the day - Scope left, not bothering to wait for his morning ration of energon. He couldn’t stay and see them looking so happy together when it literally threatened his existence. 

He spent the day wrapped in his thoughts as he mechanically worked his way through the list of cleaning jobs. Caught in a spiral of self pity that descended into a dark pit of depression and anxiety that made him thankful he’d missed his morning cube. 

There were so many questions he needed answers for. What was so special about Chronicle? Why was he allowed to sleep in Tripwire’s berth? Why didn’t Tripwire like him as much as Chronicle? Why didn’t his owner like him when he worked so hard to please him? Was there anything he could do to take Chronicle’s place as favourite? And most importantly, was Tripwire going to scrap him now he had a replacement?

No matter how many days or weeks he spent asking himself the same questions over and over again, he never found any answers. It seemed Chronicle had won and with that knowledge, Scope knew he was on borrowed time. It wouldn’t be long until someone on the university staff realised Tripwire was living with two disposables and would make him choose which to give up. There were rules on keeping disposables and Tripwire broke them often, the first rule was one disposable per mech, the second was no unattended disposables were allowed on Academy property and Scope spent the entire day running around by himself. Most mechs broke the second rule, the hallway was always full of disposables running odd jobs and chores. Few broke the first rule.

With all the extra work occupying his time, Scope had no energy left at the end of the day to do anything for himself. He usually started work before Tripwire left for class and finished late into the night, often working fifteen or more hours without a break. Recharge was all he could manage when he finally did get back home. Chronicle never returned to the closet room, he spent his nights curled up on Tripwire’s chest and Scope was thankful for that small mercy at least. The datamech was a nightmare, far too happy and excitable to live with, he talked nonstop whenever they were alone together, paying little attention to Scope’s reaction or mental state. Scope had heard the same stories a hundred times each, ‘you’d really love my owner, he really cares about me’, ‘Higgs is the greatest, he’s fighting for disposable rights’, ‘Higgs takes me on adventures and treats me like a real mech’, ‘you’d love him, he’s the best’. Scope hated Higgs out of spite, no one could possibly be that perfect. 

There had been a time, a few days after Chronicle’s arrival, that Scope had fallen asleep listening to the datastick chatter on about how great his life was and when he had woken up in the morning, Chronicle was still talking. Scope was pleased he’d missed at least six hours of the conversation, if he’d had to listen to all of it, the datastick would have needed a medic after hour two.

His studies suffered, at night he was too tired to read and at work he couldn’t even be bothered to read the datapads he picked up. There was no joy in it. He’d put great amounts of effort into learning to read so that the next time he saw Perceptor, he could impress him with what he knew, but it had been months since they last saw each other and Scope hadn’t heard a thing from him, which brought him to the upsetting conclusion that Perceptor had forgotten about him. 

With that knowledge stuck inside his head, gnawing away at his self worth like a rust termite, Scope struggled to find any reason to keep doing anything. He spent every day plagued by the question, ‘what’s the point?’ Failing to come up with a single reason to keep trying, he stopped doing everything he’d once found enjoyable. His meaningless life was easier to live when he finally accepted his fate and concluded that being recycled didn’t actually sound so bad. If they recycled everything, then maybe he could be resparked as something better, maybe even a real mech. He crossed his fingers for a scientist frame so he could explore stars and galaxies like the ones he’d seen in Perceptor’s journals. 

At work he never spoke to anyone unless he was addressed first. His hallway games - once the only enjoyment in his long days - stopped completely. The fantasy life he’d created for himself was nothing but a carefully woven set of lies to shield himself from the truth, and he wasn’t hiding from the truth any more. He accepted it in all its dark and cruel reality, embracing the cold truth with a frozen spark. 

When the other disposables stopped to talk to him and ask him about his mate and their travels around the galaxy, Scope ignored them and continued walking. It wasn’t long until they stopped talking to him completely and actively avoided him in the corridors.

Scope convinced himself that it was best if he felt nothing, so he wrapped his emotions away behind a wall and ignored them, locking them up where they couldn’t hurt him. 

Life was easier when he cared about nothing. If nothing else, it made surviving a less daunting task.

Scope never even noticed that he’d turned himself into the drone he once feared becoming. An unfeeling, uncaring, mindless drone that did nothing but blindly follow orders with no will of its own. 

Tripwire didn’t notice the change in his rifle. His studies became his life and he threw himself into them, working every free hour he had. Scope made more than enough credits for his owner to live comfortably for a long time to come and as long as that continued, Tripwire could easily ignore Scope. Chronicle did notice at first, but was too wrapped up in himself to see anything outside his perfect life for very long. He approached Scope once or twice to ask what was wrong, and then after that, forgot Scope had ever been anything else but the rude, curt mech that ignored him. 

Scope could go days without talking to anyone and that was fine with him.

Days turned into weeks and weeks into months. 

Scope didn’t notice the time fly by, his days just rolled into one long monotonous nightmare of hard work and not enough sleep. 

\---------

It was late on Sunday night and the halls were quiet. Monday morning heralded the start of the end of term exams for the first year students and most had locked themselves in their rooms, either to study all night or to get a long night of recharge. After the exams were over, they would party to celebrate the end of term and Scope would be busier than ever, cleaning up countless parties and trashed dorm rooms. 

Rounding the corner and starting down the corridor to home, Scope froze as he caught a glimpse of Chronicle waiting for him outside Tripwire's apartment door. After a long day of work, the last thing Scope wanted to see was Chronicle waving at him enthusiastically and holding up a cube of mid grade energon, nothing good could possibly come of that combination. And he was right.

Feeling like his frame had just been filled with lead weights, Scope trudged down the corridor to stand in front of Chronicle, /what do you want?/ 

The datastick cocked his head and spoke cheerfully but in hushed tones, unfazed by the irritated and clipped tone that greeted him, “Trip told me to tell you to fuel up and go to room 1218, Catalyst is moving and needs help packing his things.”

Scope bit back on a growl of displeasure, knowing Chronicle would go straight in and tell Tripwire about the ‘violent outburst’ he’d just encountered. . 

“Also, he said that you have to stay with Catalyst tonight because you’ll be finishing super late and he doesn’t want you waking him up before the big test tomorrow. Also, he probably won’t be back until classes are over, so he’ll comm Catalyst to bring you home when he’s back here. He already cleared your schedule for tomorrow so don’t worry about getting to your other jobs. You get a day off, that’s cool right?” 

Scope narrowed his optics and held back on sarcastically explaining that working all day and night was the exact opposite of a day off. 

It wasn’t the news Scope had wanted. He’d worked fourteen hours without a break and his frame ached for some rest. Working for Catalyst was the only thing that could make working all night worse than it already was. The mech always made him uncomfortable, whenever Scope had him as a client, he arrived late, tried to work fast and made his excuses to leave when it was time for his next job. He did his best to limit how much time he needed to spend around Catalyst, but any amount of time was still too much. His appointments with Catalyst were spent trying to dodge being grabbed and pulled around, twisting away from long fingers that slipped so easily between his plating and muting his vocaliser when he was caught and pinned to the closest surface. 

Now he was expected to stay the night and most of the day…if he survived that with minor injuries it would be a miracle.

His processor reeled with the information, working out a plan of action to look after himself, there were no excuses for an early escape this time. He could only hope that the move would take all night and most of the next day, limiting how much free time Catalyst had with him.

Snatching the full injector from Chronicle, Scope fuelled quickly then shoved the device towards the datastick’s chest and stormed off without another word. The halls were empty save for a few late night errand runners so Scope took the long route to Catalyst’s apartment, it only brought him a few extra minutes, but even that was better than nothing.

Catalyst lived with the other older students on the twelfth floor. They didn’t have exams like the first years, their semester was considered over aside from a few stray classes during the week. Their free time was devoted to working on their own projects which they presented at the end of the year for marks. Catalyst was moving into a house share off campus grounds, where he would have easier access to the lab and his part time apprenticeship. Scope had taken great pleasure in learning that particular snippet of information, he only cleaned for Cobalt block so Catalyst’s move meant he would no longer be a client and they would hopefully never see each other again. That day couldn't come soon enough.

The door was open when he arrived. Boxes were stacked in the hallway, some marked for long term storage and others to be taken to the new house. Inside the room was a warzone, strewn with litter, boxes and stacks of equipment to be stored away. Piles of belongings toppled from the bed to the floor, slipping beneath the mountains of rubbish, library pads and broken equipment. Catalyst looked tired and frenzied, Scope kept his distance, standing in the doorway. 

/I am here, Sir, what would you like me to do?/

The unexpected voice made Catalyst jump and he spun to face Scope, seeming almost relieved to see him, “oh good, you’re here. There’s an empty bag on the berth, pick up the rubbish, but don't throw away you don't think is trash. If you aren’t sure about something then ask, got it?”

Scope nodded and did as he was asked. Carefully he sidestepped the piles and grabbed one of the bags. Starting at the door, he set about clearing a walkway. Anything he found that wasn’t broken or was marked as Academy property, he pushed to the side for Catalyst to sort. 

It was easy enough and they worked in silence which suited Scope. It took more than one bag to clear the rubbish and more to collect up the items Catalyst was going to sell. He marked the trash with red tags and the sell bags with yellow so no mistakes could be made.

“You’re a very organised little thing,” Catalyst commented later that night, after seeing Scope surround himself with piles, one for unknowns, one for fragiles that needed protective wrapping and a third for unbreakables. 

Scope nodded and grabbed the roll of foam from the berth, tearing strips from it to wrap around the more fragile pieces. Catalyst stopped to watch him, fascinated with how the rifle set about his task of packing a box of breakables. Taking a box, Scope carefully placing each of the wrapped items inside in such as way they would protect each other. Once the box was full, he taped it closed and pushed it towards Catalyst, /this box is fragile, Sir./ He wanted to write ‘Fragile’ in big glyphs on the top, but wasn’t about to admit he could do that, so he passed the box to Catalyst in the hopes the larger mech would take the hint and do it himself. 

“I’ve seen a lot of disposables, but never one that did what you do,” Catalyst said as he grabbed a pen and scrawled ‘fragile’ on it in barely legible writing that made Scope itch to correct.

/What I do, Sir?/

“Yeah,” he gestured up and down Scope’s frame with a grunt, as if that answered the question. Scope just looked confused.

Catalyst said no more and the two mechs continued in silence. The packing took hours and Scope lost count of the number of trips he’d made to the rubbish chute, it got him out of the room though and he dawdled the whole way. For one of the lighter bags, he carried it up the stairs to level 13 and came back with the lie that the 12 floor disposal was full. 

Once the room was cleared, Catalyst looked around once more for anything he’d forgotten then leaned back against the wall with a tired sigh. “Lets get these boxes downstairs, I have a mech meeting me who’ll take them where they need to go.”

Scope couldn’t carry the heavy boxes and managed only one at a time. Making several trips up and down twelve flights of stairs was tiring and even if he hadn’t been fatigued by the full day’s work, the work was too much for him. Catalyst carried and dragged the heavy boxes while Scope took the fragiles. Outside was a transport mech, a squat truck with an open back and long pincer like arms that arranged its cargo and strapped it down. Scope placed his box on the truck’s bed and followed Catalyst upstairs to grab another. 

Seven trips down and there were two boxes left, Scope bent down to grab one but Catalyst called his name and pointed inside, “I’ll take these, you start cleaning. I’m going to follow the truck to unload it all. You just do what you do best and make that room cleaner than a hospital wing. I should only be a few hours and I expect this room to be spotless when I return. Can you manage that?”

Scope nodded, /I can do that, Sir./ As far as he was concerned, Catalyst could take all night if he wanted to, the least time spent with him the better. 

Once he was alone, the door locked behind the lanky mech, Scope took a much needed and deserved break to sit on the edge of the berth and rub the ache away in his sore joints. It was 2:47 by his internal clock and Scope allowed himself thirteen minutes of rest to start again on a nice rounded time. At exactly three AM, he groaned and stood, dragging himself to the closet to get the supplies, procrastinating the task of cleaning by organising the bottles in order of use. Finishing that - he decided - deserved another few minutes of break time. He started cleaning forty five minutes later. 

The job was easy, there was nothing to do but wipe down all the surfaces and try to buff the scratches out of the desk. The latter job proved impossible, so did removing the stain on the floor by the berth. No matter what Scope tried, the dark red blotch was there to stay, he tried all the cleaning products on it, scrubbing at it until his fingers were numb from the cold liquids. Eventually he gave up and moved on.

Scope finished an hour and a half later with no sign of Catalyst returning, the room smelt clean and disinfected, almost as good as Ratchet’s medbay. With nothing left to do and not trusting himself to lay on the berth and remain awake, Scope sat cross legged on the desk and looked out of the window. Twelve stories below was a lit courtyard decorated with growing crystals planted to roughly resemble the Academy mascot of a flying mechanimal Scope couldn’t name. The red wings of the bird curled up behind its head, fading to yellow and gold at the tips, as it the poor creature was on fire. Its beak was wide with a long gold tongue and its eyes were black. It looked angry, Scope agreed with the sentiment, he was angry too. 

It was nothing like the old view he’d enjoyed at the slum apartment, where the underground club had brought him hours of amusement. Seeing a full police raid was still the most exciting thing he’d ever witnessed. He couldn’t honestly say he missed the slums, the thick covering of dust had been the bane of his life, but the mechs were friendlier and there was a sense of community there that the Academy lacked. The miners had sung crude songs about berth mechs who plied their trade on the street corners, in return, the buy mechs sang songs about brawn and no brains. The bars were always busy and the gambling halls were packed on fridays. It was life in a way the Academy wasn’t. A place where everyone was equal and no one didn’t deserve help. 

Digging into his subspace, Scope pulled out his treasure from Rivet. The paint flakes had turned to dust at the bottom of the vial, but the crystal weed still had a slight glow, clinging to whatever life it had left. _‘It’s a piece of the slums, now you can carry your home with you to the city’_ , Rivet had said as he handed the vial over, Scope remembered the medic’s voice so clearly, even though it felt like a lifetime ago. 

It was such a silly thing to be attached to, but Scope loved it as his treasure, it was the one thing he owned. The one thing that was his and only his. His secret, like being able to read, except the vial was a physical thing.

Rivet had been right, carrying it had brought him comfort, but he wasn’t sure why. It represented the slums, where he’d spent so little of his life compared to the Academy. The slums was never his home, but then...what exactly was ‘home’? Scope understood the meaning of the word, but in practice it was a difficult concept for him to grasp. The slums had never been home, but the Academy wasn’t a home either, it was a prison. His short walk outside the building to load Catalyst's boxes was the first time he’d stepped foot outside the building in months. He could say that anywhere Tripwire was his home, but that wasn’t it either. He’d once heard a mech say that ‘home is where the spark is’ but Scope’s spark didn’t belong to him, it was owned by someone else so he ruled that out too. 

His sleep fogged mind drifted over the question some more as he toyed with the cold vial between his fingers. Did he even have a home or was he homeless? Did having a place to sleep at night automatically make wherever he was 'home'?

Catching movement in the courtyard, Scope looked up to see the lanky form of Catalyst crossing towards his building. He quickly stashed the vial away and slipped off the desk. Pouring a decent sized puddle of blue cleanser onto the spot where he'd been sitting, grabbing the cloth, Scope worked the mixture into the metal, deciding it was best to be caught doing something rather than sitting around doing nothing. 

Catalyst arrived a few minutes later, having stopped at the energon vending machine on the ground floor and buying two cubes of warm energon. “You’re still working?” He asked as he stepped inside and kicked the door closed.

/Yes, Sir, I spent a long time trying to get the stain off the floor, but nothing moved it. I am done now though,/ he said as he grabbed a dry cloth and buffed the desk to a shine. 

“Here,” Catalyst said, pushing a cube of the warm energon towards Scope, “I brought you one. You worked hard tonight and you deserve something for your efforts. Trip gets paid and he doesn’t even do anything but own you. You do all the hard work and get nothing, that hardly seems fair.”

It was a trap, Scope could see it a mile away and even though the warm energon sounded wonderful, he wasn’t about to sell his spark for it. 

/I am happy to work for my owner, Sir./

“That’s because you’re stupid and don’t know any better. You’re just another slave mech who doesn’t understand freedom. I thought you were smarter than that. I thought all the independence Trip gave you would have taught you about being your own mech.” 

Scope backed against the wall, /I am happy with Tripwire and he is happy with me./

Catalyst barked a laugh and sat on the edge of the mattress, sipping from his cube with a loud slurp that repulsed Scope. “Is he though? If he was happy with you then why has he replaced you with that over excitable, stuck up little slag bag? He’s the most annoying little glitch I’ve ever met, stupid drone thinks it’s a mech the way he never shuts up and draws attention to itself. I would take you over him any day. You’re alright for a junker.”

Scope knew Catalyst was trying to rile him up and the worst part was that it was working. Just the mention of Chronicle and being replaced brought angry fire to the pits of his fuel tank. 

“Sit down, enjoy your rest and drink your energon before it gets cold.” 

/I can’t, Sir,/ Scope said, eagerly finding himself a loophole, /I don’t have an injector./

Catalyst pulled one from his subspace, “it used to belong to my datastick, he offlined a long time ago but this should still work.” 

Scope didn’t move. The knowledge of Catalyst once owning a disposable wasn't a surprise, neither was the fact it had died, Scope was pretty sure Catalyst was the reason for the datastick's death. He felt a strong sympathy for the poor mech who had had to endure a lifetime of Catalyst. /No thank you, Sir./

“Oh, why don’t you want it? Aren’t you sick and tired of fuelling on low grade? This is warm mid-grade, there are few things better on a cold night. It will warm you up from the inside and wake you up.” 

Scope wasn’t sure if it was because he was tired - approaching 24 hours of being awake - or because he simply didn’t like Catalyst, or maybe because he felt nothing and thus didn’t fear the repercussions, but something inside him snapped and emboldened he stood his ground. /Sir,/ he almost growled, /the last time you did something nice for me, you blackmailed me into ‘repaying’ you./

“Blackmail is a harsh word, junker.”

/What should I call it then? You put me in positions where I can’t say no, that is blackmail./

“You could say no if you wanted to, I gave you a choice. You can whine about it all you want, but I know you enjoy my company, that’s why you never say no.” 

Scope balled his fists at his side, riding on a tide of burning anger he glared the other mech down. /When my only choices are allowing you to use me or having you turn my owner against me, I have no choice. Either I submit or I die./

Catalyst shrugged and cocked his head, “that is the definition of a choice. You had two options and you picked one. It’s not my fault you regret which choice you made. Not all choices are good ones, junker, sometimes all the choices are all ones you don't want to take, it’s time you learnt that.”

/I won’t be blackmailed again./

Catalyst laughed at the show of determination and resilience standing before him, “no? Lets play a game then. Either you fuel or I’ll tell Tripwire that all you did tonight was recharge and I’ll demand my payment back.”

Scope didn’t move.

“Not a good enough threat for you? Ok, I can do better.” He stood and pinned Scope to the wall, pressing against him and sliding a hand down the rifle’s waist where his hand came to rest against the cold interface cover. Scope forced himself to remain as still as a statue and give no reaction as long fingers roughly tapped against his valve cover as if they were trying to drill inside. 

“Did you know that Tripwire has only a few weeks left to decide whether he keeps you or scraps you? He needs to apply for a second year disposable pass within the next month, I wonder which name he’ll put on it? His favourite and much loved, Chronicle or his dirty, idiot of a cleaner?”

Scope froze, he hadn’t known that. Pinned under the hot weight of Catalyst he should never have been cold enough to shiver, but he did and Catalyst felt it. 

“I’ll tell you a secret,” Catalyst whispered into Scope’s audial, the pleased purr vibrating against cool metal, “Trip's not going to pick you. All the work you’ve done, all those extra credits you’ve made him with those new clients, all you’ve done is earn him enough credits that he doesn’t need you any more. You’ve made yourself expendable by trying so hard. How amazing is that?” He laughed and tapped his fingers harder, making Scope wince. “You basically signed your own death certificate.” 

Scope felt sick. He twisted in the hard grip and shoved his hands against Catalyst’s chest, pushing against him with all his might, but it wasn’t enough to dislodge the larger, stronger mech. It had to be a lie, it was just another way for Catalyst to get into his head. /You’re a liar! You’re a horrible liar!/

“You can think that if you want, but you’ve got probably three weeks left, four at best. I wonder if he’ll tell you where he’s taking you or whether he’ll just drop you off at the nearest recycling plant. Knowing him, he’ll just drop you off and you’ll be taken to the scrapper wondering why you tried so hard for a mech who didn’t care about you.” 

Scope struggled against the larger mech, his voice caught in his vocaliser, /let me go! Get off me!/

“Don’t worry, sweetspark,” Catalyst cooed, pressing his lips to Scope's faceplate in a mockery of a lover's kiss, “I’ve put in an offer to buy you from him and it's one he can’t refuse.” Catalyst laughed and stepped back, “see, I gave him a choice as well, I always give mechs a choice…I wonder if he’ll regret it like you do.”

Scope could do nothing but hyperventilate at the thought of spending the rest of his life owned by the sadist who only smiled when he caused pain. 

“I think I’ll remove the rest of your armour when you’re mine, you're still a big over armoured for my tastes,” Catalyst hummed, pressing back against Scope, “I'll strip you down to your protoform. Yes, you would be a very handsome with your bare interface array, and just think, you wouldn’t need to pretend you didn’t enjoy my company. You would be bonded to me and you'd crave everything I gave you. I'll have you beg for me.”

Anger clouded Scope’s mind, more at the thought of Tripwire being manipulated and hurt than by his own apparent fate. It wasn’t a life or death situation, but Scope reacted to it as if it was, his owner was in danger, that was enough to act on. His coding screamed at him to protect Tripwire by any means necessary and without even thinking about it, Scope lunged forward, kicking off from the wall and slamming his fists into Catalyst’s stomach plating, sending them both staggering towards the berth. Before the larger mech had a chance to contemplate what happened, Scope moved again, kicking and tearing into Catalyst with savage rage. 

By the time Catalyst had taken a few hits and realised what was happening, Scope was like a wild animal, frenzied on bloodlust. Catalyst grabbed him around the throat and slammed him into the wall. The violent burst of pain turned Scope’s vision to static and his audials rang loudly as his vocaliser hissed under the pressure of long fingers. 

Catalyst slid Scope up the wall, bringing him to eye level. The anger in his eyes didn’t scare his victim and were met by equal fire. “That was incredibly stupid.” 

Scope heard the voice somewhere in the foggy distance. He didn’t fear it, he laughed at it. The sound of dark cackling disarmed Catalyst for the few precious milliseconds Scope needed to bring his legs up, brace himself against the wall and land a double kick to Catalyst’s chest that sent him to the floor in a coughing fit as his chest fans took the brunt of the blow. 

Catalyst was back on his feet before Scope had managed to collect himself from the rough landing. He lashed out with his free fist, landing a blow to Scope’s head that had him staggering to the right. Muting his damaged vocaliser, Scope fought through the pain and returned for more. He didn’t have the reach or the strength of his opponent, but he had determination and speed, both of which he used to his advantage. 

The next time Scope was knocked back, his legs clipped the edge of the berth and he tumbled back onto the mattress. Above him, Catalyst looked murderous, dripping energon from various wounds and tears. Scope grabbed for the only thing to hand, which happened to be the forgotten fuel injector. Swinging it as hard as he could, Scope brought the device down in a wide arc, sinking the sharp metal tip deep into Catalyst’s side and tearing a wide, deep hole. Catalyst’s howl of pain was the sweetest sound. 

“You stupid little Glitch,” he growled as he tore the injector out of his side and tossed it to the other side of the room. Energon gushed down his side, dripping to the clean floor, Catalyst tried to stem the flow with his hand but it still dripped from between his fingers, “what did you think that this would achieve?” 

Scope wasn’t actually sure, but it had felt good and he wanted more. He felt more alive than he could ever remember feeling before. His weapon now lay shattered on the floor, but Scope remained defiant, fuelled by a lifetime of pent up aggression and hate. /If Tripwire sells me to you, then you better watch your back because I’m going to stab you in it./ Scope pulled his knees under him and pushed up until he could stand on the bed, bringing himself almost equal in height to Catalyst where he could look him in the eye. It was the most disrespectful gesture he could think of in the moment, to stand equal to a mech of high class and give himself value. /I hope you do buy me, because there is nothing I want more than to destroy you. You’ll spend your life looking over your shoulder and sleeping with one optic open and I want you to. I want you to feel the same fear you made me feel, that you've made everyone feel. The only difference is, I’m not afraid of you any more, but you are scared of me. You’re a coward, Catalyst. You choose your victims because they’re weak or easily controlled, you manipulate and twist mechs into becoming what you want them to be, but you underestimated me and my loyalty to Tripwire. I’ll destroy myself if it means protecting him and taking you down./

Angry at the insolence before him, Catalyst worked himself into a frenzy and Scope paid the price with torn fuel lines and dented plating. A blizzard of blows rained down on every part of his thin frame and it was all he could do to bring his hands up to try and protect himself. It wasn’t enough. Scope laughed through the blows so he wouldn't scream, shaking the pain off with a practiced ease. Granted Tripwire had never been so violent with him, but Scope understood pain, he’d spent his life living it. Catalyst wouldn’t destroy him, Scope wouldn’t allow it.

But being thrown twelve foot into an unyielding wall wasn’t as easy to shake off. He hit was wall hard, shattering the paint and denting the metal. A pink smear of energon marked Scope’s descent to the floor where he lay dazed, vents raging as he struggled through the agony that engulfed his frame, through it all his spark still burned with the ferocity of a wildfire.

Scope chuckled darkly through his cracked vocaliser and forced himself to stand on shaky legs. There was a sickening sound of something snapping and Scope's left leg buckled under him, his grip on the desk became his crutch.

Catalyst stepped back, wary now that he’d been fixed with the dangerous look of a mech pushed too far. It was clear to him that Scope was willing to fight until he could no longer. Even badly injured Scope was still looking to fight.

Outside the room, Academy Security Force banged on the door loudly and shouted to be let in. Scope wondered how they’d taken so long, the commotion in the room had been loud enough for someone outside to hear and he’d expected them there quicker. Fights between students rarely lasted as long as he’d been fighting with Catalyst.

/What now?/ Scope asked coldly, /how are you going to explain yourself out of this one? What choice do you have? Destroying property that doesn’t belong to you, stealing another mech’s disposable and then destroying said disposable. Do you think they’ll believe I was the instigator? My record is flawless, I’m well known and well liked around this building, I’ve cleaned for everyone, including security and the office staff. I am always respectful and polite to everyone I meet, but you aren’t, everyone knows you’re a piece of rotten slag. Do you really think they’ll believe you when you say I started this? They have a complaints folder dedicated to you in the office, I’ve seen it, it would take a month for a speed reader to get through./

Catalyst looked genuinely afraid, whether it was because of the repercussions of his actions or because he was locked in the room with a rifle thinking of murder, Scope couldn’t tell, but he relished it, drinking in the power. 

“I’ll get a mnemosurgeon to prove it!” Catalyst beamed, there were more than a few mnemosurgery students in the building, he was certain he could make one of them help him. 

/You could,/ Scope agreed coldly, /but so could I. I’d just have to beg them to let me prove my innocence and then they’d know about all the times you forcibly fragged me over your berth. I know that Tripwire told you not to touch me that way, he made it pretty clear the first time he brought me here and if the mnemosurgeons here are any good, they’ll see I only acted in self defence and for the protection of my owner. I’m in the clear here./

“I….slag…” 

Having power was exhilarating and Scope wasn’t about to let it go. He used the owner bond he shared with Tripwire to cry out for help. Certain he’d pay for it later and his owner would be angry about the big inconvenience before his big test, but Scope didn’t care about the repercussions, dropping Catalyst into as much trouble as possible was all he wanted in that moment. It was 6:38, Tripwire wouldn't have left for his exam yet. 

The officers banged again, calling Catalyst by name this time. 

/Tick tock,/ Scope purred.

Catalyst pointed to the corner, “go and sit down. I’ll deal with you later.”

Scope shook his head, /I don’t take orders from you. You aren’t my owner./ 

Catalyst grabbed Scope by the shoulder and roughly shoved him down. “When you are mine, I’m going to ruin you.” 

/Ditto,/ Scope growled, /but I think that today, I fragged you for a change./

“This isn’t over, you worthless glitch.”

Scope stayed in the corner, not out of obedience or fear, his left leg was useless and too painful to try and move. Scope watched as the door opened and Catalyst was pulled outside, with the danger over, he could relax and let someone else take over. His spark bond gave a brief flare of life that Scope didn’t understand at first, but quickly figured out it was Tripwire responding to his call for help. In all his time with Tripwire, Scope had never used it to call for help, but knowing his call would have been answered if he did, was comforting. Tripwire was coming and everything would be ok. With that, he offlined his optics and rested his dizzy head against the wall to stop the room swimming around him.

Now the adrenaline of the fight had worn off and his frame had cooled from the raw emotion, Scope felt every wound and dent covering his frame, there wasn't an inch of him that didn't hurt in some way. A pool of pink energon puddled around him on the floor, a fascinating feeling to Scope who ran his hands through it and pondered on the thought his life was literally draining away. Catalyst had relatively few injuries compared to him and Scope felt the bitter tang of disappointment that he hadn’t done more visible damage when he’d had the chance. 

Scope tried to listen to what Catalyst was saying in order to placate campus security, but his audials hadn’t stopped ringing and the words came intermittently. 

He must have blacked out, because when he onlined his optics again Tripwire was kneeling in front of him. There was a warm pressure on his cheek, keeping his head upright and Scope didn’t catch the pitiful whine before it broke from his vocaliser. A thumb traced his left optic hole where the damage on his face was most severe and his head jerked back at the sudden pain. 

“It’s ok,” Tripwire said softly, cradling Scope’s cheek again. The touch was so gentle and the look on Tripwire’s face was so concerned, that Scope was convinced he was dreaming or that he’d died.

/He was going to hurt you, I had to protect you from him,/ he mumbled, his voice laced with static, /I’m sorry./

Tripwire didn’t reply. Gently he gathered Scope in his arms and carried him away from Catalyst and the security mechs.

Scope leaned into the warm chest with a happy purr and felt the bond pulse comfortingly from Tripwire’s side. /I don’t think Catalyst is going to get his security deposit back now,/ he muttered into the broad silver chest of his owner. Tripwire almost chuckled. 

All too soon Scope was back in the familiar surroundings of their room, but instead of being placed in the closet like he’d expected, Tripwire ordered Chronicle to clear the bed off and when it was done, placed Scope in the centre of it and covered him with the thick blanket. Too worn out and pained to argue, Scope accepted the positioning and snuggled down into the covers, still warmed from Tripwire’s earlier recharge in them. 

“Get some rest,” Tripwire said. 

Scope wasn’t going to complain about that order and nodded slightly, recharge sounded like heaven, so he offlined his optics and rolled onto his least damaged side. 

He could have sworn that before he slipped into recharge he felt a hand on his shoulder and a whispered, “I’m sorry.”


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I bet you weren't expecting another chapter so soon.

It was a familiar sensation, being gently held in the void of nothingness. Silence and darkness, darkness and silence. No fear, no pain, just...nothingness spread out before him like a starless galaxy. 

There was something comforting in the nothing that felt so solid around him, gently caressing his frame. He basked in the feeling of calm serenity that soothed his core, washing away the ugly emotions that once clouded it, leaving him at peace. 

No, not nothing. Something. Nothingness couldn’t exist, something was always there. Someone had told him that, someone smart. Atoms, he thought they were called, invisible but everywhere they made up everything. 

Nothingness was a lie and couldn’t truly exist. 

And if it was a lie, then there had to be something in the vast inky blackness that surrounded him. He checked his surroundings again. 

It was like empty space, but although vast, space was not empty, space contained galaxies and planets, bright suns and cold dead worlds. 

If he was right and this void was his galaxy, then where were the stars and the planets? Where were the beautiful colours and twinkling lights?

Like in the Big Bang, his universe erupted to life before him in an instant that felt like eternity, from nothing came everything. Bright and beautiful as it exploded into existence, a swirling mass of colours and textures that he felt move and vibrate around him, solidifying into nebulas and galaxies, black holes and stars, bright pinpricks of light that glowed like glittering jewels caught on the softest fabric. 

Himself, he became a swirling, pulsing orb of the brightest blue imaginable, blinding in its intensity and determination to continue existing. Life, he called himself and he was more beautiful than any star or colourful cloud of space dust.

He was life. 

No, that wasn’t right. 

Life wasn’t his name. 

He pushed the thought aside, content to forget his worries and enjoy the universe he’d created. He raced through the stars, carefree and light as he spiralled wildly around them. Spinning at speed, he burst through a cloud of colour that exploded around him in a shower of vivid reds and purples. A dance. Energetic and alive, embracing himself and his creation. He was life. 

No. 

That wasn’t right. 

He paused to orbit a red star, larger and denser than any of the others it had seen. It wasn’t beautiful and it felt wrong, hot and burning, dangerous, pulling him closer with a savage gravity he couldn’t escape. 

He reached out with blue tendrils to touch the star and push it away. A flash of memory struck him like a lightning bolt. Anger. Betrayal. Violence. 

He pulled back sharply. 

No. 

His rough jerk brought him into contact with a different star. ‘I’m sorry’, whispered by a voice hardened by the cold. So soft, so gentle. Too soft. Too gentle. It wasn’t right. Something was wrong. He grabbed for the star with his tendrils, dragging it closer, desperate to protect the sad little thing. The star cracked and shattered, too delicate a thing to be grasped so tightly.

Another star, another memory. A cheerful voice and flailing hands as a small mech excitedly acted out his story. ‘Are you listening, Scope? This is the best bit!’ He hadn’t been listening, the rest of the memory dissolved away.

That was his name. Scope. 

In the distance, a spiral galaxy of stars disappeared. He watched, distressed as his memories vanished into the gaping maw of a black hole. 

Answers. He needed them. Felt like his entire existence had been spent asking questions but never finding answers. 

Drawn back to the pulsating, angry red star, he dived in expecting it to hold the answers he seeked. Anger took the place of peace, revenge took that of serenity. Dark and ugly it consumed him. It took all his will power to tear himself away before he could become one with it. His blue spark that had been so bright was tainted red. Like a drop of paint in a glass of water, the colour bled out and never stopped spreading. He wanted it gone, wanted the vile feelings to leave him. There had been peace, he wanted that again. 

There had been a fight, he could remember that much. Violent punches and threats of destruction, shouting and laughter. And energon, a lot of spilled energon. His or someone else’s? Maybe both? 

The black hole grew in strength. Swallowing stars at an ever faster rate and growing in size with each one consumed.

He moved faster, picking random stars to examine, finding parts of a puzzle in each. 

Devotion. Loyalty. Trust.

Despair.

Broken trust.

Obsessive cleaning.

Fear. Sadness. Desperation. 

He kept going. Bouncing off random stars like a pinball kicked around by flipper boards. 

Tripwire. So confusing. Ownership and abandonment. Love and hate. Pain and kindness. Soft words followed by harsh ones. Cold truths and warm lies. A tide of ever changing actions, never one way for long. Unpredictable and distant. 

Chronicle. Excitable and loving. Always forgiving. Annoyance. Jealousy. Rage. Seething hate.

Catalyst. Manipulating and evil. Cold to the core and dangerous. 

Perceptor….Perceptor. Unfulfilled promises and shattered hopes. Almost a fantasy. A dream of perfection. A teacher, but not his teacher. Kind and wise. An unattainable goal. 

Perceptor, the last star to be swallowed up.

With nowhere left to go and no stars left to investigate. He. No, Scope, waited for the inevitable. 

The stars had formed the constellation of his life and Scope was left wishing on those stars that he could relive his life and try again. ‘I could do better.’

The black hole consumed him.

\-----------

“Scope. Can you hear me?” 

Bright lights and deja vu greeted him when he onlined his optics and stared up at the medical bay’s recessed lighting. 

“Scope?” 

Scope made a small sound of acknowledgement. It wasn’t what he’d planned to say, but his vocaliser didn’t agree with his mind and the weak noise was all he could manage.

“Do you know where you are?”

He nodded and turned his head slightly, facing the voice, Ratchet. /I’m injured,/ he said quietly, /I think I was in a fight. Is my owner ok?/

“He’s fine, Scope. He’ll be back later to see you.”

/Ok. Is he mad?/

Ratchet shook his head, “no, but you don’t need to worry about that right now. You’ve been here a few days, but you’ll be fine now. We should stop meeting like this though, you’ve a bad habit of being carried in here half offline.” 

Scope would have smiled if he could have. /I can’t help it. I enjoy your company./

Ratchet laughed. Scope had taken a liking to Ratchet during his long medbay stay, the mech was stern but fair, putting his patients care above the feelings of his students. Scope respected him and his kindness.

“Well you’re one of the few that does, usually mechs are trying to get out of here, not in.” 

Scope rolled his head back onto the soft pillow and marvelled at how pain free and light his frame felt. /Am I better now? Can I go home?/

“Well,” Ratchet said gently, “not yet. Get some recharge and I’ll come back soon. I only woke you to check you weren’t in stasis lock like you were last time.” 

Scope was happy enough to comply.

\--------------

When he next woke, the medbay was darker, the overhead lights dimmed to a soft glow. He’d been covered with a thermal blanket and Ratchet was nowhere to be seen, but he wasn’t alone. A figure sat next to the berth, deeply absorbed in the soft glow of a datapad. For a split second, Scope remembered Perceptor doing the same thing and his spark pulsed with hope.

He blinked, resetting his optics and looked again, the shape sharpened into the outline of Tripwire. It wasn’t who he was expecting but it was a nice surprise. /Sir?/ Scope’s voice was laden with static and he tried again, /Sir?/

Tripwire looked up and stashed the datapad away in his subspace, “how are you feeling?”

Scope tried to force himself up into a sitting position, but only managed to rise onto one elbow before he was stopped by Tripwire’s hand on his shoulder, “don’t get up, you’ll damage yourself. Ratchet said your welds are still fresh and moving might make them crack, so you’re to stay where he put you or else he’ll kick me out.” It was a low blow to use Scope’s loyalty against him, but he needed Scope to stay where he was. Easily controllable.

/Oh,/ Scope lay back and looked over at Tripwire. Something was different, the cold facade he was usually met with was gone. Everything about his owner seemed tired and softer, like he hadn’t slept in days and was too worn out to keep up his frosty mask.

“How are you feeling?” Tripwire asked again.

/I don’t hurt any more, Ratchet gave me something. Am I fixed?/

“Yes, it’s just minor damage now, you should be able to heal it on your own as long as you stay in bed for a while.”

/That’s good, I don’t want to have to be away for as long as last time. I know you didn’t like that./ Even if he had enjoyed every second of it himself.

Tripwire moved his chair so he could more easily talk face to face with his injured rifle. “We need to talk, Scope. I need you to be honest with me and I will be honest with you, deal?”

Scope’s spark skipped a pulse and panic welled up inside him like a freshly tapped spring. Tripwire soothed it over with the bond and for the second time that week, Scope was surprised to feel it used to calm him. There was no time before that week that he could ever remember it being used that way, Tripwire had always ignored its existence.

“Easy, Scope. I don’t want to fight, just to talk.” 

But Scope did panic. An angry and unpredictable Tripwire he could handle, but the kind and soft version sitting before him were new ground. /Why are you being nice?/ He blurted out, /I got hurt again, you should be angry!/ He recoiled, wishing to claw the words back and change the tone of them. Slaves didn’t make demands, he needed to remember that, this wasn’t Catalyst any more, this was his owner and he needed to stay respectful.

“I’m not mad about that,” Tripwire replied, “well I am, I’m mad you got injured, but that’s my fault, not yours.” 

/No! Sir, it’s not-/

“It is, Scope.” Tripwire interrupted, raising his hands in a ‘hush’ motion, “I knew what Catalyst was doing to you and I did nothing to stop it. I saw you limp back enough times to know he was back to his old tricks.” 

That was mortifying, not that his owner had allowed it to happen, but that he hadn’t hidden his pain half as well as he thought he had. /You knew?/

Tripwire nodded and sighed, “I knew.” Thick silence hung between them, suffocating in its heavy air of truth. Collecting his thoughts, the jet huffed a long vent of air and sighed, “look, Scope, I’m not a good owner. I’m not going to paint the truth a nice colour for you and pretend we were destined to find each other or something, the fact is, you’re here because you were cheap and I was desperate to get a disposable that I could register before the Academy closed the registration window. I needed a datastick, but at the time I couldn’t afford one, so when I heard about a damaged rifle with a short shelf life, I snatched that opportunity up. You were never a good fit for me because you’ve never been what I needed.”

That truth didn’t hurt Scope, who had known for a long time that he wasn’t Tripwire’s first choice. /I don’t mind, Sir./ Tripwire had asked for the truth, so Scope bottled up his courage and gave it, /I never minded that. The mechs who built me, they said I was broken and that they were going to scrap me. You gave me a life, it wasn’t what I expected and sometimes I was sad about that, but not any more. I don’t mind it and I don’t even mind that Chronicle is going to replace me, I just want to stay where I am and make you happy./

Tripwire lifted his head to look Scope in the optics, genuinely surprised by that confession, “you think Ronny is your replacement?”

Scope nodded, /he is a datastick, he is what you always wanted./

The jet chuckled, between laughing or sitting in shocked silence, he chose the former, Scope didn’t take it well and shifted nervously under the sheets. “He’s not mine, Scope, I don’t own him and he isn’t a replacement for you, he’s on loan from my creator because I needed help while you away.”

Scope struggled to sit up, rationalising that Ratchet would fix him again if he broke. He fought off the hands that tried to keep him still, arguing that he needed to sit up, he couldn’t have the conversation lying down. Tripwire relented. It was too hot under the blanket and Scope’s vents choked in their vain effort to cool his frame, throwing the blanket to the side, Scope relished the cool air. There had never been a threat?...The realisation hit Scope hard, heavy as a wrecking ball to the chest. Chronicle had never been a replacement and his life had never been in danger. At least not to the degree he’d imagined it. The whole truth laid bare before him was hard to digest and his fuel tank churned, audible even over the whirring of his fans.

Distress overwhelmed the bond and Tripwire sighed, leaning back in his chair, his earlier effort to calm Scope down had only made things worse, so he let his rifle ride it out himself. A change of tactics was needed if Scope was going to handle to rest of the conversation, his honesty was doing nothing but backing Scope into a corner. “Why did you think you were being replaced? Chronicle never stops talking about Higgs being his owner, I thought you knew he wasn’t mine.” 

That was a stupid question, Scope thought to himself, a very, very stupid question. /But Higgs is your creator, I thought Chronicle was a gift from him but Chronicle didn’t understand it. I thought he was yours, but he hadn’t accepted it. When I came home and he was there, you were so nice to him and so angry at me. I thought you hated me and that’s why you stopped taking me to class and made me work instead. Everything about him said he was my replacement and you never told me otherwise. Catalyst just confirmed it when he said you had to pick which of us you wanted./

Tripwire frowned, his handsome face contorting, “when you were injured before, I was told the chances of you surviving were slim, there was too much damage. Higgs sent Ronny to me as a loaner until you were back on your feet or I had a replacement if you offlined, there was nothing more to it than that. Then Higgs went offworld and I ended up mechsitting for him. Chronicle was always going home at some point.” 

/But...what about classes?/

“I took you out of classes because I saw the opportunity to limit Catalyst’s access to you. Ever since he first met you, he’s made offers to buy you from me. Obviously I turned them down. When he finally realised that he couldn’t get you with fancy offers, he changed tactic and blackmailed me. At the time, I couldn’t do anything to stop him, if I had tried, I could have lost my place at the Academy. That’s how you ended up cleaning for him again. I wouldn’t have sold you to him, I would have sorted it out.” 

/You could have said, I wouldn’t have started the fight if I knew,/ Scope’s voice was as small as he felt. He’d wanted answers to his questions, but now he had them, he wanted nothing more than to give them back. 

“Like I said, I’m not a good owner. I’m not even a particularly good mech, Scope. Communication isn’t a strength of mine, neither is being nice. I get so wrapped up in what I’m doing that I ignore everything that doesn’t apply to the task at hand. I was dealing with Catalyst, I was unweaving what blackmail he had on me so if he did decide to use it, it wouldn’t have mattered because there would have been no proof to back up his accusations. I didn’t tell you because it was none of your business and I wanted you to stay out of it.” 

Scope pulled his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around his legs. His freshly welded leg burned at the movement, but he ignored it in favour of feeling protected. 

Tripwire leaned back in his chair, “tell me about the fight, what happened?” 

The events replayed in his mind, the emotions as strong as they had been during the fight when he’d thrown the first punch. /I was so tired, Sir,/ Scope said quietly, /I could barely stay awake and he kept pushing me. He...and...he pinned me down and his hands were...he said horrible things about you. Told me that Chronicle was my replacement and that you had to pick between us and you’d never pick me. He said that when he owned me, he was going to make me a berth pet and remove all my plating so I was a bare protoform. I wasn’t angry about that, I just had to protect you, I had to stop him from doing what he was threatening. He made me so angry that I hit him./

“You did more than just hit him.” 

Scope nodded, /after I hit him, he kept coming at me, so I kept fighting. I just wanted him to go away forever./

“While your loyalty to me is admirable, what you did was incredibly stupid.”

Scope nodded again, /I know, Sir, I am sorry./

“No, Scope, I don’t think you understand how stupid it was. I’m not sure you’ve grasped the severity of this situation.” 

/I just wanted you to like me again,/ the rifle said desperately, /I wanted you to want me again. Like you used to. I know you never really wanted me, but sometimes it felt like you did, I just wanted that again. You gave me a new blanket and it was the best feeling, like you wanted me to stay so you were making me comfortable. I wanted that back so much, but you gave it to Chronicle and he made it dirty./

It suddenly clicked for Tripwire and he frowned at his own blindness. “Is that why you kept cleaning and bringing home more new clients?” 

/Yes. I thought that if I could prove I was more useful than Chronicle then you wouldn’t replace me./ It sounded so stupid now he was saying it out loud. If Tripwire was telling the truth and Chronicle was never a threat to him, then all the hard work and long hours had been for nothing. Catalyst had been right about one thing, all his effort was meaningless and had never mattered.

Tripwire chuckled, “you’re an idiot.” 

Scope winced, /I’m sorry, Sir. I’ll try harder./

“Not like that. Although I suppose if you’re an idiot then so am I. I thought you liked being out and working on your own, you spent more and more time away from me and I didn’t mind that, I just thought you liked feeling independent. I didn’t know you were working yourself sick just to impress me. I would have told you not to do it, but you always looked so pleased when you brought home new clients that I assumed you were enjoying yourself.” 

/I….Sir, I am very confused right now./

Tripwire leaned forward, crossing his arms on the edge of the berth. He spoke slower, explaining himself clearer, “I never told you to keep bringing home new clients, you did that yourself. You’re the one who filled your schedule up, not me. Originally I had a few clients for you and I was fine with that, but you acted like you wanted more work and I wasn’t going to say no to that when it meant more credits in my account and you seemed so eager.” 

/I was eager, Sir, more credits made you happy./ 

Tripwire nodded, that much was true enough. “You’ve never been a normal mech, Scope. At first I thought it was because you were sparked to be a military rifle and you were expecting a stronger owner than you got. So I beat you to teach you your place, but that didn’t work, you never changed who you were, you just became more polite and obedient.” 

/Was I not supposed to, Sir?/

“You’ve always done your own thing, you’ve followed orders well enough, but always added your own flair to them. At first I thought it was a another creation flaw, but the longer I spent with you, the more I came to realise that it was you. It was your own quirky personality. Disposables aren’t supposed to have a personality, Scope, they’re supposed to be drones with a spark. I was angry at you for being different, all I wanted was a run of the mill, eager to please disposable and instead of that, I got you. A quirky, strange little rifle that was convinced it had emotions and deserved respect.”

/I’m sorry, Sir./

“I’m not even sure that it’s a bad thing any more,” Tripwire admitted quietly, almost too softly for Scope to hear. 

/Sir?/

Tripwire leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest as he settled into the silence of the medbay. The clock read 8:07 PM, the digital numbers flickering bright from the far side of the room. Ratchet would return soon, he’d been kind enough to let Tripwire and Scope have some privacy by pretending to go and check on his mate, Wheeljack. He’d been gone just under an hour and Tripwire’s time to explain himself was running out. He could just get up and leave, keep himself as far away as possible from the dangerous topic of disposables being true mechs Even admitting he mentally questioning that - and had been ever since Scope started showing signs of independent thinking - was dangerous. No one was above a visit to be ‘corrected’ and like most mechs, he valued his life. Still, despite his fears, there was something liberating in the admission that they were more like minibots than drones. 

“Why do you obey me, Scope?” 

Why, was a loaded question and the truth was that Scope hadn’t always obeyed him. He’d learnt to read, had knowingly allowed himself to be kept from his owner - and had enjoyed the time away, he’d taken ‘don’t be home late’ to mean ‘come home at the last possible second before I climb into bed and leave you outside all night’. He’d broken rules, kept secrets and lived his own secret life away from Tripwire, and Chronicle’s, prying eyes. /You are my owner, Sir, I follow because you tell me to./

“And if I didn’t give you orders? What if you had no owner?” 

/I don’t know, Sir,/ it wasn’t something he could understand not having. 

“What if you had been onlined as a mech and not a disposable, do you think you would have been happier?” 

Scope shifted uncomfortably, nervous under the pressure of such weighted questions. /I don’t know, Sir. I don’t know what it would be like not to have an owner. I think it would be like you trying to describe if you could be a disposable with an owner, if you’d been sparked that way./

“I couldn’t,” Tripwire said immediately and without a flicker of doubt in his tone, “that would be awful.” 

Scope nodded and fiddled with the hem of the blanket as he plucked up the courage to speak his mind. He took a few moments to organise his thoughts then spoke clearly, /I think, Sir, that you are a free mech and so you fear being trapped and owned by someone else. I am not a free mech, I am owned and it is all I know, I cannot comprehend being a free mech. It is easy for you to say that you would never want to be in my position, because you’ve tasted freedom and you don’t want it taken away, but being free sounds scary to me because being owned is all I know./

Tripwire was impressed. “You’re a smart little thing, Scope,” too smart to not be thinking his own thoughts. Tripwire could have kicked himself, regretting waiting so long to sit and talk to Scope. If he had been honest then things never would have turned out in the way they had. Primus, the things he’d done to Scope, fooling himself into the lie of ‘it’s just a disposable, it doesn’t know better’, the things he’d said and could have stopped. Scope may have started the fight with Catalyst, but Tripwire quickly came to the sickening conclusion that he had pushed Scope down that path. 

/What happened to Catalyst, Sir?/ Scope asked, as if reading his owner’s mind, /is he going to be ok?/ He added the second question on as an afterthought, a polite way of asking if he was dead. He hoped so. 

“I don’t know,” Tripwire shrugged, “I haven’t seen him, but I’ve heard that he lost his place at the Academy, I’m not sure how true that is, I didn’t hear it from anyone reliable. All I do know is that when I pressed charges against him for injuring you, it was the last straw for the Academy. I think the Academy staff were looking for a good enough reason to deal with him, they get too many complaints about him. He’s not a well liked mech.” 

/I won’t have to see him again?/ 

Tripwire shook his head, “I doubt it. I don’t think he’ll be coming around here again, even if he does come back to the Academy.” 

Scope couldn’t have been more pleased. It made all the pain worth it to know he’d won. /I’m glad, I never liked him./ 

“No many mechs did,” Tripwire said. 

/You did, didn’t you?/

“I used to,” the jet admitted, “he used to be a good mech. Well...he was never ‘good’ but he used to better than he is now. I’m not sure what changed.” They’d dated for a short time, until Catalyst had started manipulating him and Tripwire ended up being cooed into the berth with lies and false promises. He ended the relationship after that, but Catalyst was still useful enough to keep around and so they remained awkward friends. 

/Are you sad he is gone now?/

Tripwire thought about that for a while, mulling over the answers. “No. I am sad that he wasted such a good processor, but I am not upset he is gone.”

/He’s mean and horrible, he’ll probably come after you for revenge. I should come home to protect you, when will Ratchet let me out of here?/

Tripwire chewed the inside of his mouth, having finally reached the part of the conversation he’d been most happy to stay away from. “He’s not letting you out, you need to recover.” 

/Is Ratchet keeping me here for a long time again?/ Scope asked, oblivious to Tripwire’s careful tone.

“Kind of.” He frowned and looked at Scope through narrow optics, “Scope, when you attacked Catalyst, what did you think would happen?” 

/That he would stop and leave you alone. That’s what I wanted to happen and it did. he’s not a threat to you now./ 

“That’s not what I meant. I meant what did you think would happen to you.”

Scope wasn’t sure of the answer he was supposed to give. /I thought I would be injured, but I was protecting you so I thought that would be ok./

“Are you deliberately being obtuse?”

/No, Sir, I would never do that!/ He had in the past but admitting that seemed like a bad choice at the moment. 

“Ok, let me rephrase the question. What did you think the enforcers and campus security would think when they saw what you had done to Catalyst?”

/Oh….I was protecting my owner and I had to keep fighting in self defence, I didn’t think they would mind. I heard mechs say that it’s ok to fight in self defence, that the enforcers don’t get mad if you’re doing that, you’re meant to protect yourself./

“You’re not a mech, Scope, you’re a disposable with no rights. It’s fine for mechs to protect themselves, but you’re not a mech, you’re supposed to stand there and take it. You’re coded to be passive.” In his spark he felt proud that Scope had stood up for himself, but the grim reality of the act put pay to that lasting for very long.

Scope didn’t like where the conversation was going, it seemed to be heading towards a painful ending. /Am I in trouble?/

Tripwire nodded, “yes, Scope, you’re in a lot of trouble. A disposable class rifle violently attacking a tower mech, it doesn’t matter what the reason was, you’re dangerous in the eyes of the law. The only reason you weren’t immediately offlined is because a lot of mechs hate Catalyst and they lied to the enforcers about what happened. The worse they made him look, the more likely the Academy would vote to kick him out for good, making you look good was an unintended byproduct of that. You’re a Mark Orange now, do you know what that means?”

Scope shook his head. Scared and fearing for his future, he could find no words, only listen in cold silence.

“It means you’ve injured a mech. Disposable’s come with an ownership card, all disposables start with a white card, that means you’ve never shown any violent tendencies. If a disposable injures another disposable, they become a Mark Yellow. Injure a real mech and it’s an orange or red mark. Orange means you were involved in violence with a mech but you weren’t the instigator. Red Mark disposables are the instigators of violence and are recycled immediately, they’re considered a danger to society. You don’t know how lucky you are to have gotten away with being marked orange. I know you started that fight and so do a lot of other mechs, if they hadn’t lied, you would be smelted by now.” 

/But I was protecting you,/ Scope pleaded, suffocating under the knowledge he’d kept his life by the thinnest of margins. 

“It doesn’t matter why you did it, you put Catalyst in the medbay with a serious injury!” Tripwire growled, “Scope, you have no rights. I’m not sure where you came to the conclusion that you did. Disposables are called disposable for a reason. You have the same rights as a drone, you’re property.”

Scope’s vents hiccuped in a sob, /I just wanted to protect you./

“Which is admirable, like I already said, but absolutely, completely stupid. I never thought you would attack Catalyst. In all the time I’ve owned you, you’ve never shown yourself to be anything but passive. I’m sorry it came to this, maybe I should have just been honest with you or maybe I shouldn’t have assumed you would take what he dished out without fighting back. I am sorry, Scope.” 

/I just want to go home with you,/ he cried, /I didn’t mean it, I’ll be good from now on!/

“I can’t take you home, Scope. The Academy has strict rules about Marked mechs, only white card disposables can be owned by students and are allowed on campus.” 

/But you’re my owner, Sir. I want to be yours!/ 

“No, I’m not. At least not any more.” Compared to Scope’s desperate pleas and cracked sobs, Tripwire sounded cold and resigned, holding his emotions closely guarded at his chest, “as of tonight, you’re not my rifle any more.” 

If Scope was perfectly honest, he would have preferred the smelter to being abandoned. It would have made everything less painful. His spark felt too large for his chest and pulsed so violently that his whole frame vibrated. Somehow, the news from Tripwire hurt him more than the physical and savage blows of Catalyst.

/What’s going to happen to me if you don’t want me any more?/

“It’s not that I don’t want you, it’s that I can’t have you,” Tripwire corrected, feeling oddly compelled to make sure Scope understood that, “but I don’t know what happens to you, I have no say in your future, you’re out of my hands now.” 

/Then why did you come here? Why didn’t you just abandon me here before I woke up? Why show me you can be a kind mech in the last hour we have together?/ He was angry and shouted the question with enough vitriol to melt a lesser mech.

Tripwire sighed tiredly, he’d asked himself the same question, it certainly would have been easier. “You nearly died for me. I’ve not always been good to you, but you felt so strongly about protecting my honour that you nearly offlined yourself. You deserved to hear the truth from me and not a stranger.” 

Strong fingers took Scope’s hand, gently turning his wrist so the underside was facing up and Tripwire could get to one of the hardwire connects. Scope jerked his arm away violently when he realised what was happening and covered his wrist with his hand. /Please,/ he begged, vocaliser choking on the words, /please, sir, please don’t do this. I’ll be good, I’ll never do anything wrong ever again. I’m so sorry!/

Tripwire didn’t try and grab for Scope’s arm. Instead the jet let his shoulders sink low so he could rest his elbows on his knees. “Scope...I don’t want to do this as much as you don’t want it done, but you did this to yourself. I cannot own you any more without breaking the law. Don’t make me make this an order.” 

That was in itself an order and Scope couldn’t refuse. Frame racked with ugly sobs, Scope turned his wrist over and laid his arm limply on the berth. There was a soft click as Tripwire plugged into his port and set about the grim task. Piece by piece, the ownership code was burned away as his owner, ex-owner, removed his name and serial number from Scope. 

Scope couldn’t watch Tripwire and threw his free arm over his optics. He didn’t need to see it when he could feel it so clearly. It wasn’t right, it was unnatural. He NEEDED his owner and his owner was leaving him. He couldn’t accept it, couldn’t lay back and let it happen without at least trying to fight it. Taking a long, shuddering vent of air to focus, he fought back as hard as he could, throwing up a barrage of firewalls to protect the small amount of code that still remained. 

Tripwire cut through them as easily as a scalpel through thin armour. Until the last piece of coding was removed, Tripwire was still his owner and Scope was powerless to deny him anything. 

The bond collapsed with the last mention of Tripwire finally erased from his coding and Scope had never felt to vulnerable or alone. Someone had once told him that you couldn’t miss something until it was gone, at the time Scope had thought that was a stupid statement, of course you couldn’t miss something if you still had it. With the removal of the bond, he finally understood what the mech had meant. Although the bond had never been used for its intended purpose, it had always been there and Tripwire’s strong and dominating personality had always been on the other side. Now there was nothing but emptiness and his spark called out for a new bond to cling to. He needed it. Without an owner his coding wasn’t complete and it flared up inside him, punishing him, demanding to be completed before it would settle. 

Like an itch he couldn’t scratch, Scope had no choice but to suffer it. 

Tripwire said nothing as he recoiled his hardline into its port. His upset at losing Scope was written plainly on his face, but Scope didn’t see it. All he saw was the bleak, cold future. He curled up into a ball, choking on his distress and pain.

“I know it doesn’t mean much now, but I did actually enjoy having you around. Good luck, Scope, you’re a smart little thing and if anyone could land on their feet after this, it’s you.” Then Tripwire was gone, turning on his heel and striding from the medbay. 

/Sir,/ Scope called, willing to do anything to get him to come back, but Tripwire couldn’t look at him and continued walking. /I’m sorry!/ He shouted.

Tripwire didn’t turn to face Scope, but his wings fell back, low and sad, a position Scope had never seen before. “Me too, mech, me too.” 

Scope watched the door swing closed behind the jet and listened to the footsteps slowly fade away. Abandoned and alone, Scope dragged the blanket over himself and collapsed into ugly sobs that wracked his frame. 

The smelter sounded much better than this suffering. Who would want a violent disposable? 

What was his future now?


	19. Chapter 19

Ratchet returned to the medbay to find Scope curled up under his blanket, exhausted and shivering through ugly, frame wracking sobs. It was slightly better than he’d expected to find, but that wasn’t much of a comfort when what he’d expected was a hysterical mech he couldn’t control. 

He’d been in two minds about leaving Tripwire to have a private talk with Scope. On the one hand, Scope deserved to hear the truth from his owner and not a stranger, on the other, well Tripwire wasn’t a trustworthy mech. Against his better judgement, Ratchet had given Tripwire the benefit of the doubt and an hour to talk, although made the jet promise not to remove the ownership code until he was back and able to check it was being done right - and also to deal with the potential fallout. 

Ratchet had waited outside the medical centre with Wheeljack, pacing the courtyard as he counted down the minutes until he could head back inside. Now he was out of the medbay and away from Scope, he questioned whether his decision had been the right one, it certainly didn’t feel like it. His instincts proved to be right and he realised his mistake when Tripwire stormed from the building and immediately transformed then took off. 

He’d wanted to do the best for Scope, but instead, had unwittingly allowed Tripwire to betray him one last time. 

He wasn’t sure if he was more mad at himself or Tripwire.

Guilt weighed heavily on his mind, but was quickly pushed aside in favour of dealing with the situation at hand. He raced back inside, shooing off a handful of students looking for something to do with a curt ‘I’m not on duty’.

Scope cut a pitiful figure laying on his side with his knees pulled up to his chest, shivering violently despite his burning frame. Like a drug addict denied their next circuit booster, Scope was feeling the cruel effects of withdrawal, only in his case it wasn’t going to get better with time and willpower. Until Scope found a new bond to stabilise his spark, Ratchet could see that the immediate future looked grim. 

The worst part for Ratchet was that all his training couldn’t help, there was nothing he could do for his patient but inject him with a sedative and press a cool, wet cloth to Scope’s fuel lines to help cool him down.

/H-hurts,/ Scope choked out. 

“I know,” the medic said softly and it wasn’t about to get any better. 

Keeping Scope in the medbay with his reclassification to Orange and his status change to abandonware wasn’t an option. Scope wouldn’t last a week without someone calling in the recycling mechs to collect him. Ratchet’s plan was to sneak Scope off campus and keep him at his own home until something more permanent could be found. Wheeljack and the minis had already agreed - not that Ratchet had ever suspected they would say no. 

The move needed to be done before Tripwire handed in his relinquishment papers to the Academy office and Scope’s personnel file was stamped with ‘abandoned’. That way he was still legal to take from the medbay as he was still technically owned. 

Looking down at Scope, Ratchet knew he was asking a lot of the rifle, but it was better to do the move now than wait for a perfect moment that could never come. Unfortunately for Scope, it was a case of biting the bullet, dealing with the pain and getting it over and done with as quickly as possible, before he got any worse. Ratchet steeled himself for a difficult evening. 

“I need to get you out of here, Scope, so you’re going to have to trust me and stay quiet, ok?” 

Scope nodded mutely. Briefly he thought to ask where they were going, but decided he didn’t care about the answer and thus couldn’t be bothered to ask the question. Either Ratchet would take him to the smelter or he’d be taken somewhere else, but in the end neither outcome mattered to him so there was no reason to worry.

Ratchet wrapped Scope in his blanket, bundling him up against the cold night outside and carried him down the darkened corridor towards the emergency exit. It was late enough that the teaching wards were closed and mechs were sparse enough to avoid with a little creative route planning. The sedative had started to take effect and Scope was mostly limp in his arms, save for the shivering and uncontrollable jerking of limbs.

Outside, sitting on a low retaining wall for an abandoned therapy garden, was Wheeljack. Scope vaguely recognised him as the mech who’d sat and talked to him the last time he’d been in the medbay, explaining how an engineer was like a medic for machinery. Ratchet had rolled his optics and tutted, refusing to rise to the bait with a verbal answer. 

“Good, you got out without a problem then?” Wheeljack asked as he took Scope from Ratchet and moved aside so the medic could transform. 

“I think so. Once you know the quiet places, it’s easy to sneak around. Now lets get out of here before we’re spotted and questioned.” 

Ratchet needn’t have worried. Not about being caught anyway. 

They set off once Scope settled on the ambulance’s berth, he fidgeted a lot, but Ratchet was used to a cargo of squirming mech. It was no more than a small annoyance to a veteran of arrogant tower mech temper tantrums. 

Getting off campus without being stopped required taking the long way home to avoid the main entry and exit points where security sometimes performed spot checks. It wasn’t the first time they had gone home the long way, although it was usually for a far more enjoyable reason than they currently had. 

Scope started on the berth, but hit the floor with a dull thud after a sharp right turn. Ratchet slowed to stop, but Scope didn’t complain and Ratchet decided it was better to keep going rather than draw attention to themselves. Scope curled up into a ball and finally wedged himself between the wall and berth supports before he started rolling around like a loose bowling ball. Ratchet kept a close optic on him, monitoring his vitals and managed to remain calm despite the alarming results of Scope’s erratic sparkrate and high body temperature. Rifles weren’t his specialty and he didn’t have much experience with them, they weren’t a staple frame type on campus for a number of reasons, so what he did know was mostly textbook. 

Rifles were unique even among disposables, unlike ‘passive’ frame types who wanted their owner’s bond, rifles and other weapon based mechs were completely dependent on theirs. It was a failsafe, a rifle with strong ownership coding would be easier to control and keep submissive. In the event of a broken bond - such as a soldier’s death on the battlefield - the rifle would be rendered useless before it had a chance to act on its own violent impulses to kill whatever it came across. Decades of trial and error coding and the creation of a dependant spark type had come together a few years before Scope’s creation to form the perfect weapon. The pinnacle of Cybertronian disposable technology the Factories called them, conveniently forgetting to mention the unfortunate side effects of such strict coding that almost always resulted in highly strung, anxious, easily stressed and skittish mechs who suffered from a healthy dose of separation anxiety. 

Scope was feeling all his negative traits as he vented long, shaky breaths and buried his face in his knees, blocking out the lights.

In the hot, claustrophobic cabin, the overstimulation was too much and even riding on the wave of sedative didn’t seem to be helping him. The noise of his raging fans paired with Ratchet’s engine was deafening to him and the vibrations and bumps of the road that reverberated through the floor and into his frame set every one of his sensors buzzing, the itch that it caused was unbearable. 

It was all too much for the poor little mech. An hour ago he’d had an owner and now he was abandonware being snuck off campus like contraband. He choked on a sob and offlined his optics. His spark pulsed heavily, calling again for the missing bond. 

“You doing alright there, Scope?” Ratchet asked, knowing full well the answer was no, but offering the reminder of companionship. “Just a few more minutes, ok? You’re doing fine.” 

Scope couldn’t have replied if he’d wanted to, his vocaliser was firmly on mute. He felt Ratchet speed up and the vibrations increased in intensity. Sharp little fingers bit savagely into the floor, looking for some kind of hold that could keep him in reality and stop him succumbing to the panic welling in his chest. If the scratching hurt, Ratchet didn’t show it. 

Six minutes later Ratchet slowed to a stop, pulling up outside a smart little apartment block in a small crescent of similar buildings. The buildings curved around a fenced community garden, in the centre of which stood a tall twisted crystal, gnarled by time and acid rain. It seemed like an idyllic rural escape, albeit in the centre of the city. It had become a favourite area for teachers at the academy who wanted to keep their work and home life separate, declining the cheaper option of Academy Accommodation in favour of their own slice of freedom. 

“You need to get up, Scope,” Ratchet said as he sent the command to unlock his back doors and open them wide enough for Wheeljack to help wrangle Scope out. Scope didn’t move at first, just turned slightly to feel the cool air against his frame. It was only when Wheeljack reached in and gently touched his shoulder that he snapped back to attention and onlined his optics. Taking the offered hand, Scope untangled himself from the blanket knotted around his legs and slid to the ground, using Wheeljack like a crutch so he wouldn’t trip over himself and kiss the pavement. 

Scope walked like a drunken spider, concentrating all his remaining processor power on putting one foot in front of the other, only he wasn’t moving anywhere, with no forward momentum, he simply stomped the same piece of ground. 

“Don’t walk on that leg, Scope, you’ll do yourself an injury,” Ratchet said, subspacing the blanket and joining Wheeljack at the door. 

Scope didn't reply, he heard the voice but didn't register the question. 

“Carry him up, Jack, I’ll fix him an injector.” 

Scope thought he had been doing quite well and didn't react well to be forcibly picked up and carried like a broken doll. He squirmed in the hold and hissed at the strong contact under his legs and around his back. Wheeljack tightened his grip which only served to upset the rifle more and bring a whole new wave of hissing and kicking. It didn’t last for long, as soon as Scope’s head hit the white chest, he stilled, lost in the sound of a strong spark pulsing under reinforced armour. His own spark called for contact and found nothing but an echo.

They entered the building though a pair of large double doors. Inside the foyer was clean and well cared for, the brass handrail of the staircase was buffed to a high sheen as were the handles on the brightly coloured apartment doors. Scope would have enjoyed the clean space if he could have concentrated on anything else but Wheeljack’s humming engine and pulsating spark.

There were two apartments on each floor, one on either side of the staircase. On the fifth floor, Ratchet opened the door on the right with a keycard and stepped aside to let Wheeljack and Scope in first. 

It wasn’t a large flat, nor was it filled with fashionable furniture. The kitchen and seating area were open plan and simply decorated, dominated by a large U-shaped sofa surrounding a wall mounted console and a short table covered in datapads and treats. Any mech visiting for the first time could tell the family living there valued comfort and practicality over anything else. 

It was on the sofa that First Aid and Playback were sitting, turning only briefly to greet their guardians before losing themselves back in the dancing competition blazing neon colours over the screen. 

Ratchet made for the kitchen to warm some energon and searched the storage cupboards while he waited for it to heat, cursing himself for not remembering to grab a spare fuel injector from the medbay before they left. 

Wheeljack carried Scope into one of the rooms off the seating area, barely stepping a foot inside before the two minis broke out in cheers for their favourite dancer. They quieted the second they heard Wheeljack’s stern voice threatening them with a night on the streets if they didn’t start behaving. 

The bedroom was literally a room with a bed. The tiny box room was home to a large double bed, leaving no space for anything other than a tall lamp that stood in the corner. The door only opened three quarters of the way before catching on the corner of the berth, which made carrying Scope through the doorway without hurting him a challenge. 

Once they crab walked into the room, Wheeljack set Scope down on the berth, but the rifle had other ideas and wasn’t happy to lose his newly found warm spark...then he felt the bed under him and forgot about everything else but the soft, comfortable mattress. Releasing Wheeljack, nimble fingers splayed over the silky mesh material of the bedding, testing and probing the softness. Soon his whole body was spread out over as much of the bed as was possible. 

“You’ve had a rough day, eh? Bet it feels like the world’s about to end,” Wheeljack said softly.

Scope purred softly, his engine revving as he flipped onto his front and buried his face in the blanket. /S’nice. the world can end here, I don’t care, this is the best place to offline./

Wheeljack just chuckled, “you can’t enjoy it if you offline, maybe get some rest though.” 

/S’nice,/ Scope murmured again, his vocaliser distorted by the cloth. 

Seeing Ratchet at the door, the engineer slid out of the room, making room for the medic to deal with his patient. 

“How are you feeling?” Ratchet asked, sitting on the edge of the berth and holding the injector of warm energon in his lap. 

/My body doesn’t work, it’s all..../ He flopped his limbs bonelessly on the berth as if that made his point and snorted a laugh, /feels broken./

“You have a frame full of sedatives. Honestly I’m surprised you’re still awake.” Which was a little concerning, he’d given Scope the maximum dose he safely could and it should have been more than enough to knock out a mech twice as big as the rifle. 

/Don’t want to be awake, I want to recharge forever. This berth is really nice. It makes the pain go away. Makes everything feel funny./

Through the slurred words, Ratchet could hear the sedative was working, albeit slower than he'd hoped. He picked the injector up, “can I fuel you?”

Scope bolted up, covering his intake with his hand as he shook his head, /no. That’s not...no. It’s dirty, Master says so./ Master...his vents hitched. /I can do it./

‘Doing it’ involved trying to focus his optics on the tapered end of the injector long enough to aim it into his intake. A task which essentially boiled down to stabbing himself in the side and hoping blind luck would slide the nozzle into place with a click, which it didn’t. Ratchet watched and grabbed for the injector, but not before Scope managed three speedy strikes on himself. 

“Primus, mech, I don’t mind fixing you up but can you not try and injure yourself?” 

Scope glared at the injector like it had betrayed him. /It’s ok, I didn’t want to fuel anyway./ He flopped onto his side and offlined his optics, /just want to recharge forever./

Taking a different approach Ratchet hummed and waited until Scope had slipped into recharge before doing the task himself and filling Scope’s fuel tank with energy rich, warm energon. 

\---------

Scope dreamed about stars again.

It was easy to do that when the window of his room was large enough to see them. He didn’t even need to move from the berth, with the right positioning, he could lay on his back and stare out of the window. 

Occasionally a trail of white would mark a seeker’s path over the inky blackness or there would be a flash of colour as a shuttle entered the planet’s atmosphere. 

As he lay there, wishing he was one of the shuttles going on a journey, Scope wondered if any of the fliers carving white across the sky were Tripwire. Did his owner even miss him and want him back? Was he at home cuddling up with Chronicle? Did he hurt as much as Scope did? 

Scope hoped so. He wasn’t a cruel mech at spark and if he was given the opportunity to go home, he would do it in a sparkbeat, even so, he hoped Tripwire was hurting. In some way that made him feel much better.

Just the thought of Tripwire made him hurt all over. The once warm energon ran cold through his lines, encasing his spark in a block of ice that burned his hot frame. 

Blocking the thoughts away, Scope turned his attention to the window again and counted seekers. He managed twelve before slipping back into recharge.

\--------------------

He couldn’t remember his thoughts ever feeling so fragmented and disjointed. 

Where he’d usually been able to concentrate fully on a single task until it was completed, he now found himself with the attention span of a Dead End mech pumped full of circuit boosters. 

As he stared at the simple word game in his hand, Scope realised that he’d spent all day rereading the same question. The answer to the question was ‘red’, but his mind played word association with the answer until he was thinking of something completely different. He’d spent the past two hours lying on his back listing out all the things he could think of that were red, then debated if orange things counted as red things or yellow things. For the sake of his game, they were red.

\--------------------

How long had it been? A day? Weeks? Longer?

Scope was certain he was on the edge of a scientific breakthrough that would change the world. 

He'd discovered that time wasn’t linear. 

It was going to cause controversy, but all the best theories did. Mechs who liked their time neat and ordered would never accept what Scope had discovered. He'd tried explaining it to First Aid, who nodded along politely but couldn't grasp the pure genius before him.

There was no other explanation for his internal clock to be dropping hours into an abyss. He’d sat up at 9:12 and suddenly it was 2:38. He hadn’t done anything, time had vanished and if time was linear then it couldn’t just disappear.

Scope’s thought his theory was flawless and he was pleased with himself until he passed out again. 

The next day he’d forgotten about his theory.

\-------------------

First Aid was as irritating as Scope remembered him being. 

The mech wasn’t bad...just annoying. 

The little medical drone did not stop preening about having his very own patient to care for, he walked around with his chest puffed out, determined to be the medic he wanted to be and make Ratchet proud. He’d been conveniently ‘forgotten’ in the morning rush and then Ratchet claimed he was injured each day after, leaving First Aid free to keep an eye on Scope and deal with any problems. It had been a week and Ratchet couldn’t keep saying First Aid was injured or he’d be given a replacement. They needed a better plan.

It wasn’t the company that was a problem for Scope. It was the fact First Aid was so insistent on checking on him, always with a new and inventive reason to for doing so. Coming in with the same cheerful demeanor and over enthusiastic bedside manner that brought Scope’s hackles up. He’d discovered, one morning after Ratchet had left and First Aid had immediately visited his room, that there was a common denominator in all the mechs he instantly disliked and it was the overly cheerful and enthusiastic personality. They were the untrustworthy ones, hiding their real feelings and intentions behind wide smiles and kind words. Mechs couldn’t be that happy all the time, it simply wasn’t possible not to be angry sometimes or sad, which made them all liars to pretend otherwise.

When First Aid left again after the sixth visit in two hours, Scope laid back and vented long and hard, willing the day over so Ratchet would come back. First Aid was back less that ten minutes later and it took what little willpower Scope had left not to growl at the intruder and throw a pillow at his face. 

“Do you want to come and watch some programs? There are some about space, you like that kind of thing don’t you?” 

Scope tensed and looked up to see First Aid meekly peering around the door. 

“It’s just...well Ratchet says that lying in the berth all day with nothing to do rots a mech’s mind. Watching programs is easier than trying to concentrate on a datapad and I think you’d really like what I found for you.” 

There was hope in First Aid’s voice and his words were true enough. The datapads Scope had been left were too wordy for him to focus on and he had given up trying to read them after noticing he’d only been going through the motions of reading instead of absorbing the information. There wasn’t much else to do and there were only so many seekers he could count before he started to reach numbers he didn’t know and the ceiling was too boring to stare at for long. All in all it was a tempting offer to go with First Aid, the only real drawback was having company. 

In the end he agreed and spent the rest of the day curled up on the sofa watching an endless slew of documentaries. 

It seemed to Scope, that as long as First Aid could see him, the scanner relaxed and finally sat down to rest. First Aid wasn’t even bad company, he stayed quiet and left Scope alone, only disturbing him when it was time for his afternoon dose of sedatives. 

It was enjoyable enough that Scope almost looked forward to it over the next few days.

\------------------

It was the most vivid, realistic nightmare he’d ever experienced. 

Scope shot up with a muffled cry, spark pounding in his chest as the bitter taste of fear curled around his fuel lines and sent him into a state of danger anticipation. 

Reality and fantasy blurred together. 

In his nightmare, Tripwire had left him...or was that really a memory of reality?

Light poured in from the window, lighting the otherwise dark room. Surreal shapes formed in the shadows, watching. Waiting. Moving. Climbing closer. Scope knew if he offlined his optics, the shadows would get him.

He slid over to the far side of the berth, pressing his back into the corner and taking comfort from the solid wall that was so cold against his frame. 

It took longer than he wanted to admit for him to realise the room he was in was not the closet he was so used to. And if he wasn’t in his closet then Tripwire probably wasn’t asleep outside….which meant his dream wasn’t a dream and he was indeed alone.

He stayed like that until morning, with his arms wrapped around his knees, on high alert as he kept a close eye on the shadows.

When Ratchet entered his room to bring him his morning energon, Scope didn’t move or look up. He was so fixed on the shadow that looked like a face in profile that he didn’t register company until his name was called.

“Scope?” Ratchet asked carefully, taking a seat on the edge of the berth. 

He hummed a reply but didn’t look up.

“Have you been there all night?”

Another nod. /The shadows are watching me./

Ratchet flicked the wall switch and the overhead light flickered to life, chasing away whatever demons Scope had imagined. 

“Is that better? You can keep the light on if it helps.” 

Scope nodded eagerly, /yes. Thank you!/

“Do you want to talk? You’ve been a lot more distant lately.” 

He didn’t really, but before he could stop himself, the words poured forth like water from a broken tap. Questions he needed answers too spilling from his vocaliser. /Why am I here? Why didn’t you just scrap me? I tried so hard to be good and look after my owner, but I messed it up so bad. I got him in so much trouble and now he doesn’t even want me. Now I have no one and I’m all alone and everything hurts and no one is ever going to want me because I’m broken./ By the time he’d finished, his frame was shaking with pent up distress. /I just wanted him to keep me and not replace me with Chronicle. Now he has no one. Can’t you make him take me back?/

Ratchet had been waiting for the realisation to hit Scope and was only surprised it had taken so long. Scope had been with them for weeks, although he doubted Scope understood that much time had passed. Thanks to the sedatives he sometimes slept for days at a time and when he was awake he wasn’t always conscious enough to understand time.

“Come here, Scope,” Ratchet said gently, patting the edge of the berth. Scope uncurled himself and slowly crawled over, swinging his legs over the side of the berth. “You’re here because no one wants to scrap you, you deserve to live the life you want and learn about all the things you like. You’re a smart mech, too smart to be a cleaner and live with a mech that only cares about you when it suits him.” 

/He did care about me, he tried to stop Catalyst from hurting me./

Ratchet tried to bridge that one carefully, “that’s...I’m sure he cared about you in his own way, but when you really care for a mech, you don’t knowingly let them suffer. You’re in an unfortunate position, Scope, you rely on your owner for everything and accept what you’re given because that’s all you know. Your only experience in the world comes from him, so you’ve come to expect things being done a certain way, even if that’s the wrong way. Do you understand?” 

Scope shook his head, /Tripwire was good to me, he was a nice owner and now he’s gone./

The amount of times Scope had been to the medbay would disagree with that statement, but Ratchet let that one go. It wasn’t his intention to upset Scope. 

“You want to explore the stars don’t you?”

Scope nodded, /that sounds nice./

“Then you need a mech who’ll help you do that. Someone who wants to teach you and show you all the wonders of the universe.” 

/I am broken, no one will want me a broken disposable when they could get a brand new one./

“You’re not broken, Scope, you’re injured and you just need a mech to help fix you.” He almost spilled the plan they’d all been working on, but didn’t want to let Scope get his hopes up, just in case it all fell apart at the last minute. Hopefully it wouldn’t and Scope would find the owner he needed in Perceptor. Ratchet knew it would be the perfect union, although it had been Wheeljack’s idea to approach the scientist with the idea. 

Perceptor had never taken a disposable class mech of his own, many rescued datasticks had tried their luck, but Perceptor always found a another option for them. His interest in owning another mech was nonexistent, but Scope was different, he didn’t just want a nice life with a good mech, he wanted to learn and become something. Perceptor had been convinced over high grade that he’d be the perfect teacher and that Scope was a more than adequate student. Ratchet closed the deal by suggesting that Perceptor could use Scope as a way of scientifically proving disposables had inherent intelligence. 

Ratchet wrapped his arm around Scope and held him close, “just hang on for a while longer, ok? Things will sort themselves out.” Even if the plan with Perceptor fell through, there were other options on the table.

Scope relaxed into the embrace and nodded, what else could he do?

\-----------------------

Day 17 started with a bang, or rather a crash. It was loud enough to wake everyone and Ratchet was out of his berth and running down the hallway before Wheeljack had even registered what was happening. 

He found Scope on his berth, convulsing violently. 

Scope burned to the touch, too hot for his vents to easily cool. His spark - which had been erratic since first bringing him home - was pulsing so fast that Ratchet was worried about witnessing a spark attack. There was nothing Ratchet could do but protect Scope’s head from the wall and wait it out, then deal with the cause. Although he already knew Scope’s spark spasms were the result of having to support itself for so long.

It didn’t last as long as it felt and Scope finally fell bonelessly to the berth, unconscious but stable enough for Ratchet to vent the breath he’d been holding. 

\---------------------

The seizures gained frequency over the next few days, with Scope gaining consciousness for less and less time between them. After the last one - stronger and longer than the ones before - Scope didn’t wake at all. The scans didn’t look promising either.

“This is the second time you’ve had me worrying over whether you’re about to offline on my watch. You pulled through the first time, so do it again.”

They were all worried, but none so much as Ratchet who’d called in sick to stay with Scope, feigning bad energon poisoning and apologising to his students. He rarely called in sick, so when the management heard he was taking a few days off, they had no reason not to believe him and found a substitute to run his class.

Ratchet sat on the berth beside Scope. He hadn’t slept much in days, snatching only the bare minimum when Wheeljack came home and took over his job of rifle watching. 

“Just one more day, Scope, just hold on for a while longer,” he whispered, “Percy will be back tomorrow and you can listen to him tell you all about how horrible his students are and how pointless class trips are. He’s a good mech and I think you’ll do well with him, you’ll learn a lot if you put the effort in and he’ll take you to all kinds of places you’ll love.”

Ratchet leaned back on his hands and tilted his head back to look at the ceiling, “I know he likes you a lot. He enjoyed coming to the medbay to teach you how to read, his workmates asked him if he was dying or having an affair with me because of how often he visited.” 

“I come in from a long day’s work and all I hear about is your affair with Percy?” Wheeljack said from the doorway, “where’s the loyalty, Ratch?” 

Ratchet stood and pressed a kiss to his mate’s facemask, then pulled him into a tight hug, seeking the comfort and strength that came with their relationship. Black hands rubbed circles against his back struts, soothing away the stress and tiredness. 

“Let me take over for a while,” Wheeljack said, “you go and fuel, then recharge a while.”

With one last look to Scope, Ratchet nodded and after a parting kiss, slipped from the room. 

“You will like Percy though,” Wheeljack said as he took Ratchet’s spot, “he’s really not as strict as he seems. Although I suppose you’d already know that.” 

\------------

The next day, Perceptor abandoned his students at the station and made his own way home. It was late, they’d missed their original transport from TertaHex and had no choice but to pick up a later one, which had then stopped to load cargo halfway home. Some of the fliers had opted to make their own way home along with an over eager race frame that hadn't quite grasped it would never beat a seeker. It wouldn’t be any quicker to fly home, in fact, Perceptor had calculated that it would take them an extra hour, taking into account the flight checks over the major cities. He said nothing, if they couldn’t work that out themselves then he wasn’t about to help them. They’d learn the hard way or suffer the same problem each time. 

With all the holdups, it was nearly 10:30 at night by the time he managed to get outside and start the forty five minute walk to Ratchet’s.

It took an hour, but the cold air cleared his head and helped him think about what he was doing. 

He’d liked Scope since their first meeting, there was something about the way he held himself and analysed information that made him interesting. He wasn’t as outgoing or energetic as the other disposables that stayed in his office, but he was more intense, always watching and learning. Enjoying his silence and own company. 

The reason Perceptor had turned down so many disposables was their constant need for companionship and affirmation, but Scope didn’t crowd him and beg for attention like the others, he simply accepted it when it was given and was content to find his own things to do. 

Teaching Scope to read had really cemented how much he liked the mech, he worked hard and was incredibly smart and quick to pick up information. If Scope was honest about wanting to be a scientist, then Perceptor was sure he could make it happen. 

He arrived at Ratchet’s just after 11:30 and didn’t even need to ring the bell and announce himself before Wheeljack was at the door and letting him in. 

“We were starting to worry you weren’t going to make it. Ratch hasn’t stopped fretting over Scope, he’s...well he’s not so good right now.”

“He’s still alive though?”

“Yeah of course, we would have commed if anything bad happened.” 

Perceptor nodded and followed his friend up the five flights of stairs and into his apartment. 

Ratchet looked tired when he came out of Scope’s room to greet Perceptor, “it’s so good to see you.” 

Perceptor nodded, “you too. I apologise for the late arrival, we had some problems on the way home.” 

Ratchet waved the apology off, ready to get down to business, “you’re here now, that’s what matters. Are you ready to do this?” 

Was he? Bonding himself to another mech was daunting, his processor kept finding reasons not to go through with it and he worried about how his life would change now he had a dependant to care for. “I am. What exactly should I be expecting?”

“Scope’s been offline for a few days and his spark is weak, so I hope you have a few easy days planned because you’re going to be too tired to do much of anything. You’re going to need to keep your fuel levels high, above 85%, at least until your bond settles, that should counter a lot of the side effects. I don’t expect it will take long for his spark to sync with yours, once it does you'll feel your frame feel like yours again.” 

Perceptor nodded and wrote the notes on his HUD just in case he forgot, it wasn’t likely to happen but he liked to be prepared. “Is that all?”

“I think so, just take it really easy on him. He’s had a rough three weeks and this is going to be a surprise to him.” 

“I had wanted to ask him if he was happy with this arrangement. Is there no chance of that?”

Ratchet shook his head, “no and honestly that’s for the best. He’d agree simply because he needs an owner, it wouldn’t matter who the mech is. If you bond him and neither of you like it, then you can find him a new home, but he’ll be stable with your spark to support him.” 

Wheeljack joined the conversation and handed Perceptor a cube of high grade, “better get that fuel level up, Perce.”

The scientist winced at the nickname and pinned Wheeljack with a glare, “don’t call me that. Percy is bad enough, don’t shorten it more.” 

“Yeah, yeah, drink up.” 

While Perceptor fuelled, Ratchet took the time to explain what he needed to do once he walked into Scope’s room. “Hardline into his system and fill out all the blank ownership details in his code, but leave the Master Code blank. That will stabilise him enough for you to move him and I’ll take you both home. Once you’re there, you can fill out the Master Code, that’s the one that needs your serial number to complete and will form the bond. I suggest doing that one while you’re both laying down, with his spark so weak it might knock you offline for a while. I’ll stay the night and keep an optic on you both.” Ideally he’d like Perceptor to stay with them so he could keep watch over them, but Perceptor had refused on the grounds that he would be more comfortable at his own home and therefore so would Scope which would facilitate their recovery.

Ratchet couldn’t fault the logic, although he rarely could with Perceptor, everyone who knew the scientist knew he wasn’t comfortable in someone else’s space for long. Begrudgingly, he’d agreed to the plan once he’d made a few alterations and additions, mainly that he stayed until he was comfortable leaving.

What Perceptor found when he entered Scope’s room and saw the unconscious mech shouldn’t have been as startling as it was. Ratchet had warned him. It felt wrong to see the rifle looking so vulnerable and fragile. It made up his mind and wiped away any lingering fears, Scope needed him and he would be the mech to help.

“Are you sure this will work?” 

“Yes. You’re not overriding an existing ownership, Scope was abandoned and his coding isn’t going to fight you from claiming it.” 

“You’re certain?”

“....put your firewalls up just in case, but I’m sure everything will be fine.” 

Perceptor fixed Ratchet with a frown, trying to gauge how serious the medic was. In the end he decided to put his firewalls up just to be safe. From his chest he unravelled a length of wire and plugged the connector into Scope’s wrist. He'd expected to meet with angry code demanding he claim it...instead...

Nothing happened. 

Perceptor searched for the code and even pinged his arrival into Scope's system. After a deep search, he found nothing but the distant, pulse of a spark, too weak to reply to his own. 

“There’s nothing there Ratchet. No coding or anything.” Perceptor sounded uncharacteristically nervous. 

Ratchet’s spark hit the floor. Fears of leaving it too long flamed in his mind, it had always been a risk, but one he’d thought he’d had in hand.

And now...was there any of Scope left to save?


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been so excited to write this chapter for so long! 
> 
> I'm celebrating reaching chapter 20 by writing fluff and happy Scope into this painfest of a fic.

‘Just talk to him, he’s responded to you like this before. Maybe you’ll be able to convince him to wake up.’ Ratchet had said as he exited the room and pulled the door closed behind him, he needed to step away and put his thoughts in order before he unintentionally made the situation worse. It was a long shot, but he was running out of ideas and Scope had shown improvement around Perceptor before so it wasn’t as if the idea was completely without merit.

But making small talk was the bane of Perceptor’s existence, from the staff parties and science conventions where he needed to be friendly and polite, his small talk was almost always meaningless and forced. Why mechs couldn’t simply get to the point and drop the unneeded chatter was beyond him. It would make for a much simpler world if they would.

It had been a few minutes since Ratchet had left and in that time, Perceptor hadn’t moved. 

There was something almost funny in how physically uncomfortable the silence felt as it hung in the air. It shouldn’t have been, Scope was unresponsive after all and wasn’t even expecting conversation, and yet... 

Perceptor drew a long vent and sighed it out as he stared up at the ceiling and leaned back on his hands. There were marks in the off-white paint from the paintbrush, swirls and sloppy brushstrokes that became more and more visible the longer he stared. Whoever had painted the room had been unhappy with the task, Perceptor could see some unsavory glyphs had been written and only partially painted over. 

It wasn’t often his mind ran completely blank, he couldn’t even think of an interesting fact to start the conversation off with. With a topic he enjoyed, he could talk for hours, but starting a one sided conversation...well he wasn’t Wheeljack and he didn’t have the gift of idle chatter.

“Scope. I..”

His voice sounded alien to him, catching him off guard. ‘It’s just Scope,’ he told himself, as if knowing that would make the task easier. Scope wouldn’t care what he had to say, he’d just care about the company.

Still hardlined to Scope, he could feel the same distant spark pulse he’d felt earlier and focused on that as his reason to continue. Scope needed him and if the only way to help was to start a ridiculous conversation then he would do just that.

The truth was that over the two weeks since he’d started sorting out the ownership papers and registering himself as a new owner, he’d started to enjoy the thought of Scope being living with him. He’d planned museum visits and read up on the Academy rules of disposable ownership for staff, checking that he could take Scope on the class trips. He’d been out and brought an injector that now lived in the energon cupboard next to his own cubes. He’d brought new blankets and cleaned out the spare room next to his own so Scope would have a comfortable place to stay and wouldn’t feel too far away. 

In recent memory, he couldn’t remember anything that had managed to excite him as much as the thought of taking Scope on little adventures and teaching him everything he could. He’d gone above and beyond to make his new assistant feel comfortable and wanted in his new home and he couldn’t lose him now, not when they were so close. 

So while he had spent a few sleepless nights worrying about having a mech permanently living in his personal space and dealing heavy responsibility of being a caregiver, seeing Scope’s new injector in the morning made him realise that it probably wasn’t going to be a bad thing, because in a way, Scope was already there. 

From Wheeljack’s first suggestion, Perceptor had known that there was no way Scope wasn’t coming home with him. 

Pit, he probably knew before that. Back when he was awkwardly standing in the bookstore looking for easy reading datapads to take to Scope in the medbay. 

Perceptor turned on the bed and reached out to touch Scope, gently placing his hand over Scope’s spark. He’d expected Scope to be cold, like a corpse, but he was surprisingly hot, his plating almost too hot for comfort. 

“Scope, I am terrible at this kind of emotional admittance thing, usually I avoid these kinds of conversations like they’re a case of cosmic rust. I don’t know what to say that will bring you comfort and I don’t know if this even helps at all. So I’m just going to be honest with you and hope you hear it.” 

He paused, hoping to see a sign from Scope, there wasn’t one. 

“You need to come back and you need to keep fighting. If you do, then you have a place in this world, with me for as long as you want it. I’ll take you home and you’ll have a good life, we’ll go to museums and science shows and there’s a planetarium opening soon that you would love, we could probably get opening night tickets if you wanted to go. I can’t promise it will always be perfect, because nothing ever is, it’s the bad experiences in life that make the nice ones feel so good. You have had more than your fair share of bad times, so come and find out what the good ones are really like. We’ll be good partners if you’ll just wake up and let me code you.” Partners, not owner and slave. “You can be happy I know you can.”

Perceptor winced at his own words, even to his own audials they sounded insincere and disgustingly sweet. It didn’t even sound like something that would have passed his lips and it wasn’t a shock that Scope didn’t respond. 

“I don’t blame you for ignoring that, lets pretend it never happened and try something else.” 

Scope’s engine hummed quietly under Perceptor’s hand and the vibrations tickled his sensors. It was the only sign of life Perceptor could see from the outside, but down the hardline he could feel more, a stronger will to live. 

Against Ratchet’s advice not to go too deep, Perceptor followed the hardline down to where he felt life. His new approach was to let Scope feel him there and follow him back into reality, it seemed a better idea to use on a practical minded mech like Scope. 

And it wasn’t as silent as he’d first thought. 

\-----------------

Scope dreamed of galaxies and vast endless universes. Space had always represented the freedom he’d been denied and longed to understand. It was the one place he could be himself, free from the oppressive rules which regulated his life.

Ever since Perceptor had shown him the pictures shuttles had taken on their journeys, explaining what each image showed, he’d felt the pull to explore it and learn all the secrets it held. There was nothing he wanted more than to be up there, surrounded by the beauty so many were blind to and foolishly called empty. 

His own universe was the closest he’d ever come to exploring it for real and so he indulged himself in racing between the memory stars like a sentient comet. 

He didn’t replay any of the memories, there was no reason to. Unlike the last time, he knew who he was and remembered everything important, he was happy enough to simply exist and dance. 

Except this time was different. Unnatural. Something was watching. 

He remembered the shadows that had taunted him during the night and grew angry with him when he started recharging with the light on. He feared them chasing him into his world where the darkness was vast enough to hide them, but this onlooker was different, warmer and gentler than the sharp edged demons that played with his mind. 

He stopped in his racing to follow the feeling. Like a path of gold, the warmth led him to his destination.

It was just past the memories of his abandonment and Ratchet’s kindness that he found what he was searching for. Another spark. 

Tentatively he approached. 

The visiting spark was just hovering and showed no outward signs of being anything but a projection of his own mind. Scope circled it excitedly, it didn’t feel like his stars, it had mass and its own pull, pulsing brightly in the abyss. Circling it closely to tease it into a game, Scope then raced away, trying to draw a reaction. He repeated the tease and chase a few more times before coming to the disappointing conclusion that it wasn’t going to work. 

Invading the other spark’s personal space, he reached out with wispy tendrils to touch it. That seemed to work and it snapped to life, zigzagging away on a speedy, erratic course. Scope chased after it, vibrating excitedly. 

Once the spark oriented itself in the world and understood how to move around the universe, it moved more fluidly, showing the same grace Scope had perfected after hours of being locked away in his own mind. 

Then the game began. 

Scope caught the spark and tagged it with a tendril, before racing off between the stars like skier on a slalom course. It took a moment for the visiting spark to realise that it was expected to join in the game and it hesitated only for a moment before it decided to indulge Scope and chase after him through his early memory stars. 

Like two celestial bodies caught in each other’s gravitational pull, they twisted and turned around each other. The spark struggled to keep up with the more experienced Scope, but was too afraid of losing him to slow down and take the game at a more sedate pace. 

Scope changed direction sharply, veering left so quickly that the spark couldn’t adjust its course in time and crashed into one of the stars. In reality Perceptor took a sharp vent of air as vivid memories flooded his processor. A sharp backhand from Tripwire followed by the rush of pain and Scope’s confusion about what he’d done to deserve such punishment. Perceptor’s hand rubbed his own cheek in sympathy, he could feel how upset and emotionally twisted Scope had been. He experienced the emotions and pain as if they were his own and it made him wary to touch too deeply again. 

Although it didn’t stop him testing another memory, only this time he only touched it and allowed it to play instead of allowing it to take over his processor. Tripwire was gifting him a new blanket, still wrapped in the protective wrapping. He’d been so happy. No, Scope had been happy and had taken it into his closet, unwrapping it slowly, savouring the moment and drawing out his gift for as long as he could. 

Another star and another memory, a mech Perceptor didn’t know had grabbed Scope and shoved him against the wall, blaming him for breaking a crystal ornament while he cleaned. Scope hadn’t done it, but he took the blame regardless and promised to be more careful next time. 

Each memory painted Scope’s life as bitter grey, a monochrome adventure of abuse and cruel words. 

Perceptor felt sick, it was one thing to know what was going on, but it was another matter entirely to see it with his own optics and feel the accompanying emotion and fears. It was a testament to Scope’s willpower that he hadn’t snapped earlier...and it was a miracle more disposables didn’t snap at all. 

He should have stopped looking, he knew that, they weren’t his memories and he didn’t have permission to view them. Part of him knew it was wrong, but with every memory he saw, the better he understood what he needed to help fix and absolutely sympathised with why Scope had attacked Catalyst. Even the most mild mannered mech could only take so much. 

He needed Scope to understand who he was and if Ratchet was right and Scope would come out of stasis for him, he needed a way to wake him. Back inside Scope’s processor, he broke away from Scope and located the memory file of himself teaching Scope to read. He waited by it, forcing Scope to come over and investigate where his play partner had gone. 

Scope had been enjoying the company and wasn’t ready to stop playing, so when the new spark stopped to orbit a single memory and refused to chase him any more, Scope ignored the memory out of spite and poked the spark, urging it to come and play again. 

Stubbornly, the spark refused to move and the two came to a stand off. 

It was important and the spark whizzed around the memory like a moon around a planet. Scope vibrated annoyance, this was his universe and no stranger was going to come in and order him around. He had enough of that in the outside world and inside his mind he was free from the demands of others.

Using his tendrils, he tried to pry the spark away from the memory and back into their game, but the spark refused.

Scope buzzed.

The standoff continued for a few more minutes and Scope eventually conceded defeat just so they could get back to the game. Angrily he flew at the memory, crashing into it like a wrecking ball. It was Perceptor reading to him in the medbay, pointing out words on the datapad and translating them into Primal Vernacular so Scope could make the connection between visual and audial. He’d been patient, guiding Scope through the words that looked and sounded the same, then explaining the differences and their proper meanings. Scope had never been so content and happy as he was in that moment. 

When he pulled away from the memory, he asked himself why the spark had been so insistent he look at that particular star and it made no sense to him at first.

…Until it dawned on him that the spark was probably trying to tell him that it was Perceptor. Immediately he felt bad for being so stubborn and bad tempered. 

If he was right though and his friend was Perceptor, that changed everything. Like a puppy excited to see its owner after a long day apart, Scope was all over the visiting spark. He’d given up hope of ever seeing the scientist again and had thought he’d been forgotten, yet here he was in his universe! 

Perceptor took the affection to a point, but when Scope showed no signs of stopping and he started becoming uncomfortable, he reached out with tendrils to gently push him away. For a mech that had never been allowed to say no, Scope understood its meaning and backed off immediately, despite still desperately wanting the contact. 

Now that Perceptor had Scope’s full attention, he just needed to get him to wake up long enough to find the code he needed. It couldn’t be that hard...could it?

Distracting Scope with their previous game, Perceptor shot off with Scope on his tail. This time, he didn’t let Scope catch him and stayed out in front. 

Scope seemed to understand it wasn’t a game any more and followed Perceptor’s lead as he searched for a way out. Nestled in the centre of the universe, Perceptor found what he hoped was the answer. A black hole. It was out of place among the memories and not something Scope would have needed to dream up to complete his universe.

Reaching out with a glowing blue tendril, Perceptor pushed Scope towards it and then pulled back from the hardline to wait for Scope to make the jump. 

Not a few seconds after leaving the universe, Scope followed him. He woke with a pained gasp, vents hitching as he suddenly felt the weight of his aching spark and the burn of his exhausted frame. Scrabbling for hold to stay in reality and not slip back into stasis, Scope latched onto the hardline where he could still feel Perceptor and focused on that. 

“Easy, Scope,” Perceptor said gently, placing his hand back over the rifle’s chest. 

Scope took a long vent and shuddered. The hardline was enough of a comfort that his spark stopped feeling like it was about to burst from his chest, although it certainly helped that it was Perceptor on the other side, a mech he respected and feared letting down. 

“Are you feeling ok?”

Scope nodded slightly. /Sir, what is going on?/ His voice was cracked with static, barely recognisable as words, /I didn’t think I was ever going to see you again./ And he couldn’t express how happy he was to be wrong about that. 

“Ratchet and Wheeljack informed me of your predicament and said you were in need of an own- a partner. I was away on business and only returned to the city a few hours ago, otherwise I would have stopped by sooner, although I am glad to see I wasn’t too late to see you again. You have had everyone worried about you.” He sent a quick ping to Ratchet to let him know Scope was awake. “I came here with a reason though and if you are agreeable then I would like you to come home with me. It doesn’t need to be a permanent arrangement if you don’t wish it to be and if you find a mech you would rather live with then you’re free to do so. For now, I believe Ratchet is right when he said that my giving you a bond will stabilise your spark. If nothing else, it will give you time to find a mech you want to be with.”

/Are you joking?/ Scope resented the words as soon as he saw how sad Perceptor looked by them. It all felt like a dream and if it wasn’t for the ache in his frame, he would have thought he was still deep in stasis. He pinched a fuel line in his leg anyway and felt the sting of pain. Definitely awake then. He couldn’t believe his luck, out of all the mechs he’d ever met, Perceptor was the only one he wanted to be with. 

“You don’t want to come home with me?”

/No! I mean yes! I mean,/ he took a deep vent to calm his excitement, /I think you’re great and I couldn’t be more happy to go home with you. I mean, you’re joking about me wanting to find someone else aren’t you?/

“No, I’m not. There are rules here, Scope. I’m not giving you my code so I can be your owner, I am doing it because I think it’s the right thing to do and I believe that out of all the mechs I could help, you are the one who would benefit from it the most. You don’t need an owner, you need a teacher who will teach you the answers to the questions you have. You aren’t obligated to stay with me if you find a mech you would rather be with, you deserve to be happy. Outside our home, you need to keep up the act of being an obedient servant, but while we’re alone, you can be yourself and I don’t expect you to be anything else.” 

Scope was having trouble grasping what he’d just been told. It all sounded too good to be true, which meant there was a catch in there somewhere, but that was something to deal with when it showed itself. Right now he was simply ecstatic to be offered a chance to go home with the mech he had dreamed about for so long. The one he had liked to imagine coming to rescue him from Tripwire.

/Please,/ he was almost sobbing, /I want that so much. I don’t want to find anyone else, I just want to come with you./ 

Perceptor smiled, “very well then, can you show me where your ownership code is? It didn’t show up when I plugged into you.” 

Scope all but threw it against the hardline and the older mech stifled a chuckle. 

Perceptor filled it out carefully, leaving the master code blank like Ratchet had told him to. With each addition of Perceptor’s name into his code, Scope felt the ache ease and his spark took a more natural rhythm. 

“I’ll fill the last of it in when we get home, Ratchet thinks that you’ve been bondless for so long that it will probably knock us both offline.” 

Scope nodded, his spark called for it but Ratchet wasn’t usually wrong and he didn’t want to hurt Perceptor with his impatience. It wasn’t painful enough that he couldn’t wait a short time. /Thank you,/ he whispered. It was a joy to hear Perceptor call it ‘our home’, as if Scope deserved to be there. 

Once Perceptor pinged Ratchet to tell him it was done, it didn’t take long for the medic to come and investigate if everything was ok. Once he saw Scope looking more relaxed and coherent than he had in weeks, he vented a sigh of relief and smiled. “You look a lot better already. How do you feel?”

/It doesn’t hurt as much,/ Scope replied, /thank you for looking after me though and letting Perceptor take me./

Ratchet brushed off the thanks with a shrug and a smile, “you’re welcome. I’m happy you found a good home, but right now, we need to get you out of here. It’s really late and you are going to need to rest tomorrow.” 

Perceptor reached to pull the hardline free, but Scope caught his hand, almost immediately releasing it when he realised he had no right to ask if it could stay connected. It wasn’t a bond, his spark still called for that, but it was comforting to feel Perceptor that way, especially with his new ownercode so freshly written and unfinished.

“Do you want me to leave it connected?” 

Scope shook his head, /you don’t have to, it’s ok./

“Let me rephrase that, would you like me to leave it connected?” Perceptor corrected.

Scope nodded slightly, /you don’t have to though./

Perceptor removed his hand from the connector and stood, gathering the rifle into his arms carefully so not to snag the wire. “It’s no trouble.” 

Being held so tightly to the scientist’s broad chest, Scope felt dizzy with emotion. Excitement, pleasure, want, nervousness, it all melted together to form an indescribable feeling that made his chest want to explode. There was fear too, over his short life he’d learnt that good things were never free and Perceptor was a VERY good thing, so the price of that was probably going to be extremely heavy. He doubted Perceptor would be anything like Catalyst - and honestly, thinking of their names in the same sentence made him feel sick - so maybe he was wanted a cleaner? That wouldn’t be so bad, thought Scope, it seemed like a fair deal to make if he was going to be taught by Perceptor and could one day be his own mech and maybe even get a proper job.

First Aid was the saddest to see him leave, Scope had been his first real patient and now he had to go back to class and pretend he was just a drone again. It was a harsh return to reality and he sulked behind Wheeljack’s legs.

“You know you’re welcome to stay here,” Wheeljack offered once he saw Perceptor exiting the bedroom with an armful of lanky rifle, “it would be easier on you both.” 

Perceptor shook his head, “thank you but that isn’t necessary, we’ll be more comfortable at home and that will help us recover faster.”

Scope listened to the conversation around him, but wasn’t paying it much attention. The hardline was too good a distraction and Perceptor felt so warm against his plating. It seemed like he’d finally managed to get himself everything he wanted in an owner and he couldn’t have been happier. 

A deeper inspection of the hardline - but not too deep, he didn’t want to abuse the privilege of having it - brought emotions that weren’t his own, Perceptor was trying to hold back, but Scope could feel it all behind the makeshift dam. The familiar feeling of nervousness bled through the cracks and Scope wanted to brush it away with promises that taking him was the right decision. He didn’t, if he had known Perceptor better then he might have tried, but instead he just promised himself that he would work harder than his new owner expected and would be no burden on him. 

When he finally pulled himself away from the hardline and back into reality, Perceptor was heading down the stairs behind Ratchet. 

Scope’s internal clock told him it was 3:24 when they stepped outside into the eerie silence where the only sound was their footsteps. A cold breeze blew over them and Scope shivered, instinctively pressing against the warmth. Perceptor didn’t seem to mind.

“It won’t take long to get home,” Perceptor told him.

Scope nodded, but really he didn’t mind if the journey took forever as long as he could remain in the older mech’s arms. /Do you live on the campus, Sir? I’m not allowed there, Tripwire said so./ 

“I don’t,” Perceptor replied, “and you are allowed on Academy grounds as long as you are accompanying me. I am not a student, I am part of the faculty and the white card rule only applies to students. It was added to the student ownership manual after students were found to be making money by staging disposable pit fights on campus grounds. Under the new rules, any disposable caught fighting another is barred from Academy grounds. The students feared losing their right to own disposables and so the pit fights stopped. Staff don’t fight their mechs and so the rule is not enforced there and that is good for you. I’ve already had you registered as my assistant and as long as you don’t start any more fights - with anyone - no one will question you being there. In fact I doubt anyone will even ask your status.” 

/I promise, Sir. I’ll be no trouble./ He was determined to be the opposite of trouble, he was going to be the perfect mech and make Perceptor wonder how he ever survived without him. 

The idea of students staging pit fights made him feel sick, what kind of mechs would do that? They made Tripwire look like a saint in comparison and that was no easy task. How scared those disposables must have been, being forced to fight their friends. What had happened to the ones who refused to fight? Would any have refused if it meant denying a direct order? 

Ratchet transformed and Perceptor managed to squeeze inside the patient hold. It was a tight fit, he wasn’t a small mech and Scope was all limbs. Perceptor would have happily made his own way home if Scope wasn’t still attached to him via the hardline, it certainly would have been more comfortable.

“You owe me a carton of highgrade after this,” Ratchet grumbled. 

“I’ve a few cubes of Vosian triple filtered with your name on them,” Perceptor replied. 

Once they were driving, Scope looked back to Perceptor, /do the pit fights still happen?/ 

“Not on campus, but there are underground rings in the major cities that the enforcers can’t seem to shut down. It isn’t what you’re thinking though, they don’t set two datasticks on each other, they mod their mechs and give them heavy armour and inbuilt weapons. Datasticks are literally turned into tanks.”

“It’s a disgusting practice,” Ratchet joined in, “they scour the recycling plants for minis who aren’t badly damaged and buy them cheap.” Weaponry mechs were considered the ideal fighters, datasticks were passive compared to a pair of angry twin blasters. Ratchet strongly suspected that the pits would have been Scope’s future if the recycling mechs had collected him from the medbay.

/That’s horrible,/ Scope whispered.

“It’s not all awful,” Ratchet said, trying to lighten the mood a little. It was Scope’s first night with Perceptor and dark conversation themes were not the best way to settle him in. “There’s an underground movement, CaEV, they’re doing quite well and saving a lot of mechs. There are secret colonies of minis living offworld that started life as slaves here.” 

/I’ve heard about those CaEV mechs before/ Scope said, /one of the datasticks in Perceptor’s office was telling me about them a long time ago. He said you are them./

“We’re not all of them,” Perceptor corrected, “we’re some of them. The movement has a lot more members than just us. Even on campus there are more than you’ve met.” 

/Thank you,/ Scope said honestly, /for looking out for them and for me. I want to help too./

Perceptor smiled at him, “I’m sure you will in time.” 

\-------------------

Scope wasn’t the least bit surprised to find Perceptor lived only a few minutes from a sprawling complex of laboratories, engineering workshops and small factories. He remembered Tripwire once mentioning that Perceptor owned his own lab and would take on one of his best second year students as an apprentice over the long Academy break.

What did surprise him was that Perceptor was a tower mech. 

Granted it was one of the older and less desirable towers, but it was a tower none the less. 

Ratchet drove into the compound through a tall archway and came to a stop inside a large walled courtyard. The first thing Scope did when he slid out the back of the ambulance was throw his head back and take in the sheer height of the building, he was certain that if it wasn’t touching the sky, it came very close to doing so. 

What had once been the pinnacle of architectural design was now slightly dated in appearance, with its visible support beams and heavy, almost clunky design. The main body of the tower soared above them, then at the top a disk splayed out like a UFO had landed on the roof. The latest building fashions were for sleek lines and glass.

Perceptor disconnected the hardline with an apology that they couldn’t be seen walking around like that in a place where mechs gossiped more than worked. “We’ll be home in a few minutes, do you think you can walk by yourself?” 

Scope nodded, he didn’t want to walk, but he would if he had to. He already missed the connection and could practically feel his concentration slipping away. His spark screamed at the loss of contact, but the fact his code was owned took some of the sting away. 

They entered into a large, airy foyer where the floor had been polished to an almost mirror shine. Glistening black walls were lit by uplighters embedded in the floor, giving the walls the shimmer of a fresh oil spill. Sounds echoed in the vast space and Scope was afraid of saying anything lest the entire building hear it. 

Instead of heading straight for the lifts, Perceptor strode over to the reception desk and was greeted by a somber black and silver mech who registered Scope as now living in the building. 

Scope bristled as the unknown mech looked him over with a barely hidden distasteful glare. Once they were finished, Perceptor all but pulled him away from the desk and into the waiting lift. Scope forgot about the mech as soon as they started moving and grabbed the lower handrail in a deathgrip, imagining the floor falling away and the three of them plunging to their deaths. 

What seemed like an eternal trip finally ended on the forty-third floor, just under halfway up the building. The doors opened to reveal a long corridor, with doors and framed pictures on either side. At the end of the corridor they turned left and Perceptor stopped outside the second door on the right. Pulling his keycard from his subspace, he slotted it in under the door handle and entered his passcode. The door clicked open. 

It was absolutely nothing like Scope had expected. 

When he imagined tower mechs, he envisioned a life of excess, where credits were splashed around like they were worthless. He imagined expensive furniture and endless parties, illicit substances and the finest energon. The picture that had been painted for him was nothing like what he was seeing, even Tripwire had boasted about how rich his caregivers were and how many disposables they owned. 

Perceptor’s apartment was modest, large enough for two mechs to live comfortably, but smaller than Ratchet’s and less homely, it wasn’t completely void of personal touches, but Scope could tell Perceptor hadn’t put that much effort into decorating to his own tastes. The light colours helped make it feel larger than it was and it was kept clean - although not quite to Scope’s standards and he’d deal with that later. 

/I always thought tower mechs were party mechs who never did any work and had so many credits they couldn’t pronounce the number./ Scope said. 

Perceptor chuckled, “not down this low they aren’t, the upper towers are like that, but down here the apartments are small and cheap. There are classes within the towers and low tower don’t interact with high tower. Sorry to disappoint you but we’re low tower and they think we are poor and worthless.” 

/I’m not disappointed,/ Scope said quickly, desperate not to be seen as ungrateful, /I just heard so many stories about tower mechs and no one ever mentioned classes in the towers./ 

“Of course they don’t,” Perceptor said, subspacing his keycard and walking into the kitchen, “they think it’s disgusting that we are allowed to call ourselves tower mechs at all. The low tower is considered to be the slum of the upper class world.”

“Everywhere you go,” Ratchet joined in, leaning on the door as Perceptor fixed their energon, “you’ll find classes of mechs. It’s not just something mechs do to the disposable class, it’s something they do to everyone, even mechs who live in the same building as them.”

/Why does it happen though? Is it always rich mechs making the classes?/

Ratchet shook his head, “no, it happens everywhere. Intelligence based jobs like medics, scientists, tacticians, engineers, senators and enforcers all look down on mechs who hold menial jobs or do physical labour. Flight mechs look down on grounders, shuttles look down on seekers, everyone looks down on disposables, datasticks look down on other disposable classes, rifles look down on anyone who isn’t weaponry based.”

/I don’t look down on other mechs./

“I’m talking in general, Scope. Of course there will be mechs within certain frame types that don’t fall into the same category. I’m not saying that a seeker and a shuttle can never be friends or that a flight mech and a grounder would never talk to each other. Society and class wars are a complicated subject to try and explain, it’s more something you need to experience yourself and now that you’re living here, you’ll start to understand it on your own.”

“I think that’s enough for tonight,” Perceptor said as he handed Scope the filled injector and slid a cube to Ratchet, “it’s very late and this isn’t the time for that.”

Scope was desperate to ask questions, but he’d promised himself not to be an annoyance to Perceptor so swallowed them down and took the injector.

“Fuel up and then we’ll go and finish your coding off.”

That was enough to make Scope forget all his questions. With a polite thank you, he slipped from the kitchen and found a quiet spot to inject in private. From the kitchen, he heard Ratchet explaining that Tripwire had taught him it was a bad thing and needed to be done in private. Perceptor just frowned.

Fuelled up and excited for his coding, Scope almost ran back into the kitchen. 

/I am ready, Sir./

Perceptor wasn’t halfway through his cube. “You don’t have to call me sir when we’re at home, you can call me by name.” 

/...yes, Sir./ He couldn’t imagine being that disrespectful, maybe when they knew each other better it would be different.

Ratchet stifled a laugh, “well at least he’s not calling you Perse.” 

Perceptor winced, “indeed.” 

With their cubes finished and in the recycling crusher, Perceptor led the way through the apartment to his berthroom. “You can recharge in the spare room,” he told Ratchet and received a tired ‘thanks’ in reply. 

At the end of the hallway was Perceptor’s room. A large window in the far wall looked out of the city and with the high vantage point looked like a sea of stars and lights. Scope was drawn to it like rust to a wreck and pressed his face to the cool glass, taking it all in. He’d never seen a view like it and could have stayed there for hours if it wasn’t for Perceptor calling him away.

“Come and sit down, Scope, you can explore all you want later. Lets do this first.” 

The rest of the room was dominated by the berth and an endless supply of datapads stacked neatly on the shelves. Across from the berth was a large console, next to which hung a calendar covered in handwritten notes. 

The berth was as comfortable as it looked and positioned to take advantage of the view, Scope sat where he was asked and tried not to lose himself in the birds eye view of the city. 

“You should lay down,” Ratchet said from the doorway, “I told you already, I think it’s going to knock you offline.” 

Pulling the hardline from his chest, Perceptor plugged into Scope before laying down. Scope copied him and kept a respectful distance, at least he hoped it was a respectful distance, it was hard to tell when he was fighting the need to crawl into the other mech’s lap and never leave.

As he had done before, Scope pressed his coding to the hardline so Perceptor could find it easier. It took seconds to finish filling out, Perceptor only had to fill out his name and serial number and the bond forged itself like fire. 

Ratchet had been correct, deprived of a bond for so long, Scope’s spark greedily drank up Perceptor’s. He choked out a pained whine as his spark fought against aligning with Perceptor’s then suddenly snapped into perfect rhythm.

Perceptor managed a sharp intake of breath, it wasn’t a painful feeling, but he could physically feel his energy levels dropping at an alarming rate. 

Scope was in stasis before the bond finally settled into something comforting and warm, but Perceptor lasted long enough to probe the new bond briefly and see how it worked. He didn’t remain online for long, his fuel levels had dropped so rapidly that he couldn’t keep himself awake and low energy warnings flashed across his HUD. 

Ratchet sighed, he wouldn’t be sleeping for a while yet. By the time his head did hit the berth, it was midday and he didn’t expect either of his patients to wake until night.


	21. Chapter 21

Scope woke up feeling GOOD. Not the kind of good he’d felt with Tripwire, when a kind word and an early night was enough to make him feel like he’d had a good day, but the pure, genuine, no hidden traps, GOOD. A kind of good that he’d never been before.

Perhaps good wasn’t the right word. Good implied things could be better, but Scope was flying as high as a shuttle about to break out of Cybertron’s atmosphere. His spark fluttered in his chest, anchored to someone who genuinely seemed to care for him. Great was probably a better description, but even that didn’t seem a strong enough term. 

Perfect. Things were just perfect.

For the first time in his life, Scope woke feeling rejuvenated and eager to see the day through. Although not eager enough to muster up the will to move out of his comfortable position sprawled over Perceptor’s broad and very warm chest. Waking up with his limbs tangled with Perceptor’s and a heavy, protective hand on his back was an experience Scope wanted to repeat as often as possible. Now he knew how good it felt to sleep in a warm embrace, he couldn’t blame Chronicle for wanting to be in Tripwire’s berth instead of the sleeping in the closet. He understood why Chronicle looked forward to it and talked about it so excitedly, although he doubted Chronicle ever woke up wrapped in strong, safe arms. If anything Tripwire would have pushed him away after getting too touchy.

Unlike Tripwire, Perceptor was a strong weight on the other end of the bond, a grounding rod of safety and security that Scope was encouraged to take comfort from. No longer would he be expected to act alone and follow blindly. Tripwire had called the slave bond a waste of time and a test of his patience, after the initial forging, he let it lapse until it had all but faded into a ghost of a connection. He had no desire to feel emotions that weren’t his own - if he had any and Scope wasn’t convinced he did - and honestly, Scope felt the same way. Still, just a few minutes of tending each day would have kept the bond strong and given Scope the reassurance he needed to fully trust his owner. The panic attacks that plagued Scope and angered Tripwire would never have been an issue if Tripwire had simply offered himself as an anchor point and supported Scope through his fears instead of barking orders that only upset him more and pushed him deeper into the pit of fear. 

Scope knew instantly that Perceptor wasn’t going to be like that. The scientist radiated care and trust, the bond felt safe and filled through Scope’s frame like thousands of tiny tentacles, touching every inch of him with bright warmth. 

Scope was at ease with the new arrangement before it had even really begun. He’d already known Perceptor was a good mech, but now he KNEW it from the inside out. It didn’t seem like there was a cruel circuit in his body.

Between the bond and the warm frame wrapped around his own, Scope knew what happiness felt like. The world could end then and there and he wouldn’t mind, not as long as Perceptor kept holding him.

It was midday, late for any mech who was used to waking up at the crack of dawn and going straight off to work, but Scope wasn’t moving for anything less than a direct order from Perceptor. Deep down, he felt guilty for not getting up to work and earn his keep, but his new owner hadn’t moved either and Scope wasn’t about to risk ruining the moment by checking if he was online yet. As long as Perceptor was happy to stay where he was, so was Scope and if Perceptor was mad about that, well Scope wouldn’t be lying if he said he’d needed the recharge. 

It was the heavy footed mech in the apartment above them that finally ruined the moment, stomping around loudly as readied himself for work. The ceiling shook under the footsteps and Scope could feel the vibrations reverberate through his frame. He frowned, plotting a petty revenge on the mech for spoiling his perfect moment. Dust motes caught in the ceiling cracks floated down weightlessly, as if caught in slow motion, Scope tilted his head up, watching with fascination as the particles caught the light of the window and seemed to remain suspended on the beams. 

Perceptor groaned, it wasn’t the first time he’d been woken by his neighbour and it wouldn’t be the last, it was worse when the mech worked a late shift and stomped around in the middle of the night. “It’s like a miner learning to dance,” he muttered as he threw his arm over his optics. It never ceased to amuse him when mechs talked about how living in a tower was glamorous, ‘high class’ living, obviously they had never lived below a ballet dancing miner. 

Scope remained quiet, feigning sleep. 

The first lesson Scope learnt about his new owner was that once Perceptor was awake, he wasn’t the type to lay around and do nothing. 

“I know you’re awake,” Perceptor said, his voice thick with sleepy static. 

It didn’t sound angry or upset, more amused than anything else, but Scope wasn’t about to take any chances and scrambled off Perceptor’s chest, looking sheepish that he’d been caught. /Sorry, Sir./

“There’s no need for such formality...at least not when we aren’t in public,” he added as an afterthought. “I think we need to set out some rules if this is going to work for us both, I didn’t agree to your living with me just so you could swap one owner for another.”

Scope looked confused as stepped back from the berth, giving Perceptor room to stand up and stretch. Did Perceptor not want him? Was he regretting everything already? Did he upset his new owner by not getting up early and doing something? 

Perceptor could feel the hesitation and worry creeping over the bond, Scope was upset with him. It was fascinating really, to feel what another mech felt with such clarity. Before he’d agreed to take Scope, Ratchet had given him a medical booklet titled, ‘You and Your New Disposable’. Inside it listed the dos and don’ts of responsible disposable ownership, gave tips on care and maintenance and offered a brief, clinical explanation of what the bond was. A strong bond, it read, was necessary for a healthy disposable, without the stabilisation of a strong spark their weak ones would eventually falter and fail. The unsaid reason was darker, but Perceptor could read through the lines. Forcing bonds was a cheap and easy way to ensure that a disposable without an owner wouldn’t survive freedom - it was also free propaganda for the Senate who could claim that ‘Freedom was Death’ for drones. A bond also forced obedience and kept the disposable obedient to their owner and kept them trapped in a servile relationship where they could do nothing but obey. 

In the entire - very short - booklet, there was only one sentence that interested Perceptor and it read, ‘at times you may experience your disposable’s emotions, this is not a glitch in the bonding process but a safety precaution that allows you to predict and rectify any unwanted feelings or thoughts.’ 

The booklet had been entirely unhelpful for the most part. Luckily Perceptor liked to research and a few late nights at his terminal had given him a far better understanding of what he was getting himself into. 

Calmly, he reached out and lightly gripped Scope’s shoulder, soothing the upset away with a gentle pulse of the bond, “don’t worry yourself, everything is fine and you’re safe here. We’ll sit down tonight and have a proper talk about things, but right now we still have a guest with us and I am sure you could use a cube, I know I could.” 

/Yes, Sir,/ Scope agreed and followed the larger mech out into the main room. The idea of ‘The Talk’ was terrifying, but Perceptor didn’t seem like he was about to kick him out onto the street and the bond was still warm and reassuring so Scope tried not to let it bother him. 

Together they made their way into the living room where Ratchet was sitting comfortably in one of the soft sofas, idly listening to a cheerful news anchor talk of the Senate’s latest plans to set up a trading agreement between the cities. He didn’t look up from the essay he was marking but called out sarcastic ‘good morning’. His mood had been fine considering he slept slouched on the sofa, it took a downturn when he decided to use the alone time to grade his student’s work. He’d set a simple essay - at least he’d thought it was simple - to detail when and why a fuel pump transplant should be considered and how to install a new one. Livewire’s datapad had him grimacing in imaginary pain and clutching at his side in sympathy for the future patients his student wanted to treat. 

“That bad is it?” Perceptor asked. 

Ratchet winced and dropped the pad, “terrible, absolutely terrible. Six essays marked and two of them have forgotten what painkillers are.” He turned his attention to his own patients and stood, “I was starting to wonder if you’d be getting up at all today. How are you feeling?”

Perceptor barely had a chance to open his mouth before Ratchet descended on him with a medical scanner. “Aside from a headache, I’m fine.” 

“I’ll be the judge of that. I don’t science for you, don’t medic for me.” The scanner beeped twice and Ratchet looked over the results, “although I concede you are indeed ‘fine’, although your fuel levels are remarkably low.”

 

Perceptor pointed to the kitchen, “I was about to rectify that.”

/I can do it for you, Sir,/ Scope said quietly, wary of interrupting but wanting to be helpful, /I can get your energ-/

“Oh no you don’t,” Ratchet interrupted, “Percy can get your energon, I need to check you over.” 

Ratchet was ordering his owner to get his energon? That wasn’t right, that was his job! Scope looked to Perceptor for help, expecting annoyance, but he seemed amused by Ratchet’s antics, “it’s fine, Scope, you won’t escape him when he’s got his scanner out, racers have tried and he still catches them. I’ll fix your energon while he checks you out. Do you like it warm?” 

Did he? Scope couldn’t remember ever having it warm before, if he had then he’d been too starved to notice. He’d been offered it of course. Warm energon was really to blame for the sharp turn in his life, if Catalyst had never tried to blackmail him with a cube of it, then the fight would never have happened and he would still be with Tripwire. For the simple reason that he wanted to like the thing that brought him to Perceptor, he nodded, /I think so, Sir. I don’t remember having it before though./ 

“Well I’ll make it for you and if you don’t like it then I have a cold one for you.” He’d never met a mech who didn’t, but there were always exceptions to the rule.

Scope thanked Perceptor and followed Ratchet to the table, hopping up to sit on one of the chairs where his feet could barely touch the ground. The medic plugged a scanner into his wrist port and set the device to do a full deep scan, looking specifically for any glitches in his coding that could have been corrupted during his time without a bond. “It’s going to be a while, but it’s nice to do this while you’re awake for a change.” 

/Thank you, Ratchet/ Scope said quietly, keeping the conversation out of Perceptor’s earshot, /you didn’t have to save me all those times or take me home with you, but you did and you found me a new home too with the mech I liked. I owe you everything, but I have nothing to give you to say thank you./

Ratchet smiled and reached out to clasp Scope’s shoulder, “that’s what friends do, Scope, they look out for each other and help when they can.”

/We’re friends?/

Ratchet laughed warmly, “well we aren’t enemies are we?”

/No!/ Scope said quickly, looking alarmed, /I don’t want to be enemies. I’ve just never had a proper mech friend before./

“What about all the littles in Perceptor’s class? Aid says they like you and always ask when you’re coming back.”

First Aid was right, they did like him, but Scope wasn’t too fond of them, they were nosey and talked too much. The majority of them acted like they were superior to him, looking down on his lack of knowledge and telling jokes that went over his head. Scope had to admit he also looked down on them the same way, he was a weapon and they were weak. /They’re not proper mechs, they’re like me./

“Aren’t you a proper mech?”

Scope shook his head, /No. If I was a proper mech then no one would be allowed to keep me as a slave. Proper mechs own themselves, I don’t and neither do the other disposables. They’re stupid if they think they do./

“But you think you’re a real mech don’t you?”

Scope would have frowned if he were able to but his inflexible, blank faceplate was anything but expressive. /What I think doesn’t matter, I know my place now. I used to think that I was a mech, I had a job like one and you were nice to me, Perceptor even taught me like one of his students. I was wrong though and I learnt that the hard way, I thought I’d be allowed to fight Catalyst because he was a bad mech and I was in danger, but instead I got in trouble and now I am on the ‘dangerous mechs’ list. My owner abandoned me and if it weren’t for you then I’d have been smelted down and no one would have cared. I thought I had some rights, not as many as you, but enough to keep me safe. I learnt my lesson though and I won’t try anything like that again./

“That’s...not what I mean, Scope. Look at Aid, he is the same class as you, but he wants a ‘real’ frame because he knows he is a real mech.” 

/But he isn’t./

Ratchet was losing the battle and hoped Perceptor could teach Scope that he had value, more than his frame. “A spark’s a spark, Scope, it doesn’t matter who it belongs to, at the end of the day they’re all the same. You just got the bad luck of being framed as a rifle.” Which technically wasn’t completely true, there were differences between forged and cold constructed mechs, but for the sake of proving a point, they were the same thing.

/I like being a rifle...well, I used to like it. Tripwire only took me shooting a few times, but it was really good./ He chuckled sadly, /now I’m not even a rifle any more, I’m a protoform with some added bits. I don’t want a ‘real’ mech frame, I like being a rifle and this is where my spark wants to be. I just want to be me again./

Ratchet leaned back in his chair, fingers tapping the table as he thought. From a medical point of view, turning Scope back into a functioning rifle wasn’t a big job and he wouldn’t even need to visit the medbay. The parts he needed were easy to find at any of the disposable supply stores and shouldn’t be too expensive - they’d be cheaper second hand, but Scope was smart and would soon realise that cheap parts came from offline mechs. It was better to avoid that. Not their their boycotting of used parts would stem the flow, mechs would always want cheap parts and there would always be a surplus of disposables to be stripped.

It was awful, but Ratchet tried not to think about it. Wheeljack often reminded him that he was only one mech and he needed to remember that. There were so many mechs who needed saving and he couldn’t save them all, he did what he could for the ones he could save. Thinking about the ones he lost and couldn’t help only made him feel guilty for failing them. It helped to remind himself that he made a difference, one mech at a time. Scope was all the proof he needed, with a new home and a bright future, things were looking up for him, even if he didn’t see the full picture yet. 

“One thing at a time,” he said with a smile, “we’ll sort you out but you have to be patient. Enjoy your time with Percy for now, he’s a good mech and he’ll talk science to you all day if you ask him about it.” 

Scope nodded. /I am happy./ And he realised how terribly ungrateful he was being in wanting more. Perceptor and Ratchet had given him everything and opened their homes to him, inviting him in like he was worth having around. /I didn’t mean to sound rude,/ he added quietly, /I really am thankful for everything you and Perceptor have done for me./

“I know you are and I understand that you miss your frame as it was, I’m sure losing it was traumatic.” 

Ratchet didn’t know the half of it. Scope wasn’t sure how old he was or when he’d been created, but it felt like a lifetime ago since Rivet had performed surgery on him. He struggled to recall what it felt like to be complete and in working order. The memories of being taken to the shooting range were so distant it felt as if they never happened at all. 

It wasn’t even being stripped of his purpose that Scope hated, it was the humiliation of walking around like an unfinished DIY project started by a mech with no skill and a half baked dream of completing something. 

Traumatic didn’t really cover how Scope felt, but then no words did. At least not words that he could use in polite company.

Perceptor returned balancing two cubes and an injector in his hands, the cubes were full to the brim and Scope expected the energon to slosh over the side. It didn’t. 

Ratchet thanked Perceptor and took a shallow sip of the steaming liquid, testing the temperature to avoid scalding his glossa. Too hot to drink quickly like he liked to do, so he set it down on the table to cool. 

Perceptor sat on the opposite side of the table and slid Scope’s injector to him. The rifle sat up straight and cocked his head to one side, delighted by the offering. The injector was brand new, with the remnants of sticker residue clinging to the side. It was the nicest injector Scope had ever seen, painted in the same shade of purple as his armour, with a large viewing window to see how much energon was inside, the moving parts were silver and gleamed under the lights. Perceptor had obviously put more thought into buying an injector than Scope ever had, he had looked around to find the perfect one, a matching accessory for Scope, something just for him instead of using another hand-me-down. It worked for Scope, it was such a small gesture but it made him feel like he belonged there.

The happy feeling didn’t last long. 

Perceptor and Ratchet slipped into an easy, friendly conversation over their cubes, discussing their class schedules and plans for the end of semester break. Scope listened and waited for any signs the conversation was about to end. Neither mech was in a hurry and both seemed happy to take their time. There was no need to rush when the medical scanner would keep Ratchet there until it finished. 

Scope just wanted to fuel in peace. 

Maybe it was a test. Refuelling in public was rude, Scope knew that, maybe giving him his energon at the table was Perceptor’s way of testing his manners for when he had company over.No, no, Scope told himself, Perceptor was a good mech and wanted him to fuel. He wouldn’t play games.

It didn’t help him though. He stared at the injector, so pretty and definitely his, Primus he wanted it and his fuel tank was practically begging for it, with shaky hands he reached out and pulled it closer. Perceptor didn’t react, that was a good sign right? 

As stealthy as he was able, Scope tried to slip away with his prize, forgetting he was still attached to the medical scanner until it scraped across the table after him. No escape then. Unsure how to continue, Scope sat quietly, drowning in the unobtainable need that rested in his hands. 

Perceptor felt the uncertainty flood across the bond and turned with worry to look at Scope, sitting hunched over in his chair. “What’s wrong? Is it too hot for you to fuel with?”

Scope shook his head, the warm injector felt wonderful in his hands. /no, Sir./

“Then wha-...Oh,” It suddenly clicked what the problem was and he tried to reassure Scope with another pulse of the bond, it had worked the last time, but this time it went ignored. Scope still looked hurt, hunched over in the chair, optics practically glued to the floor. “You can fuel, we’re not upset at you.” 

/Yes, Sir./ But he didn’t move.

Ratchet downed the last of his cube and stretched, taking control of the situation before Perceptor did something he’d regret. “Show me what you did to your spare room, Percy.”

Perceptor looked between Scope and Ratchet and sighed, annoyed that Ratchet had stepped in and stopped him convincing Scope to fuel. “Very well.” 

Scope was thankful when they left the room and he could quickly fuel up before they returned. Perceptor had been right about the warm fuel, it felt wonderful as it filled his tank and warmed him from the inside out. 

He set the now empty injector on the table and waited for orders to do something else. 

Between the voices of the news reporters still talking on the screen, Scope could make out the muffled voices of Perceptor and Ratchet in the other room. Neither sounded very happy and Scope sank down into his seat, Perceptor was going to be angry at him. This was all his fault.

\----------------

The medical scanner had taken a few hours to finish and Ratchet had spent another hour going over the results. Scope was given a clean bill of health. 

Ratchet didn’t leave after that, he needed to go home and rest but wasn’t about to fight the rush hour commute to do it. A game of cards to pass the time turned into a night of teaching Scope how to play so he didn’t feel left out. They spent the first hour teaching Scope his numbers and the card suits, when he had a solid grasp of that, Perceptor explained the rules to him. They got off to a shaky start with a few illegal card moves, but Scope soon found his feed and proved to be a good player with a knack for predicting the other player’s moves. Fifteen hands in and he’d won a handful of the energon chips they were using as betting chips. 

The next time Ratchet checked the time he was shocked to find it so late, the game had been fun but Wheeljack and the others would be waiting up for him. 

Scope was mentally exhausted by the time Ratchet left. He had thoroughly enjoyed the game and the company, but he’d never spent so long as the centre of attention. Even when he’d been a patient in the medbay, mechs only came and spoke to him for a short amount of time, only what they could manage away from their own jobs and tasks. 

He helped Perceptor clean the small apartment and took the empty cubes down the hall to the rubbish chute. By the time he returned, Perceptor had finished the last few tasks and was sitting in the spot Ratchet had vacated. The holoscreen was off and the silence was heavy. 

Perceptor patted the seat next to him, “shall we talk? I’m sure you have questions.”

/You’re mad,/ Scope said quietly. Instinct told him to keep his distance from angry mechs, but he couldn’t disobey an order from his owner so shuffled over to sit down. Perceptor had been fine through the card game, but Scope hadn’t forgotten that he was the reason Perceptor had gotten into an argument. Ratchet had been his buffer, keeping him safe from Perceptor’s wrath, but now he was gone and Scope was certain he was about to be told off.

“Why would I be mad?” 

/You were fighting with Ratchet because I’m bad./

Scope’s voice was small and crackled like a broken radio. Perceptor felt his spark hitch. This wasn’t the cheery, happy little mech who had won his spark with eager excitement and a desire to learn. This was a mech with the weight of the world on his fragile frame. Scope’s ability to trust anyone was damaged and Perceptor knew it would take time for the rifle to settle down and trust him, he just never imagined Scope’s trust issues were balanced on the edge of a knife.

“Scope, I promise you I’m not angry,” Perceptor said softly, but Scope didn’t seem convinced. 

There were a lot of things Perceptor was good at, but dealing with mechs wasn’t one of them. Most of the time it came down to knowing what to say and how to say it, but he didn’t know what to say that would help. 

So he didn’t speak at all. He acted.

A warm EMF field curled around Scope, full of honesty and sincerity, void of anything negative, especially anger. Scope’s own - usually pulled so tight to his chest, reached out tentatively, seeking reassurance Perceptor was more than happy to give. Feeling like he had permission, Scope flared his EMF out, drinking up the security like a drug. Safe and certain he wasn’t in trouble, he relaxed.

That was better.

“Scope, I’m not the best at this kind of thing, ask me about science or maths and I can tell you anything you want to know. Relationships and mechs are a different matter, I need your help, ok? I don’t want to upset you, I want you to be happy here, but I need you to tell me how to help you.” 

Scope didn’t answer, but he watched Perceptor closely, gauging his words against his EMF and the bond. It certainly didn’t feel like he was lying.

“I know you’re scared. Everything is new and you’re stressed out with all the changes, you’ve been thrown into a new life and you don’t know where you stand any more. I understand all of that, I don’t know what it feels like, but I get it. So lets make a rule, ok?” 

Scope tentatively nodded, /ok./

“Good, alright then.” He looked around for something to give Scope that was easy to hold and stash away in his subspace. His shelves were littered with small trinkets he’d picked up on his travels and been gifted by students, everything from miniature replicas of planets to mathematical puzzle boxes, but nothing that suited the need he was trying to fill. Then he saw it, In the corner, half obscured by an orrery, was a metal star about half the size of his palm. Perceptor carefully reached back for it, he couldn’t remember where it had come from or why he kept it at all, it didn’t match with the rest of the scientifically accurate pieces he collected. 

Scope watched him with muted excitement.

Perceptor reclaimed his seat and held the star up for Scope to see, “this is the honesty star, you can use it whenever you have something you want to say but you’re scared to say it and when I see you holding it, I know you want to talk. You can say whatever you like when you hold it, no repercussions. I promise not to be mad while you’re talking and when you put it away, I still won’t be mad.”

/like an anti-angry shield?/ Scope asked.

“Sure,” Perceptor chuckled, “an anti-angry shield.” He held the star out for Scope to take, “do you want to try it?”

Scope nodded and took the star, /I can keep it?/

“It’s yours, you can keep it in your subspace and use it whenever you want. I only ask that you don’t do it around other mechs, this is our little secret.” 

/Ok. Thank you./ He wasn’t that stupid, he would be on his best behaviour when other mechs were around. Bad behaviour always got him hurt and showing Perceptor to be a bad owner would be the worst mistake he could make. 

It sounded dangerous to have free reign to say whatever he wanted, but Perceptor’s EMF was light and hopeful. Slowly he turned the star over in his hand and wrapped his fingers between the five points. Finding something worth saying was the hardest part. /I do trust you,/ he whispered, /I don’t want to get hit./

“I’m not going to hit you, this is your home too and you have the right to feel safe here. I promise you there will be no hitting or shouting.” 

Scope would believe that when he saw it happen. /You need one too,/ he said, changing the subject.

“I do? Alright, well I picked yours so it’s only fair you pick mine.” 

That brightened Scope up, /really?/ A nod and a smile was all he needed. Setting his star safely on the table, he stood and walked over to the shelves for a closer look at all the objects. Whatever he picked needed to be good, Perceptor had given him a star afterall! His very own piece of space to carry with him. He picked up a few objects, testing them in his hand before setting them back down when they didn’t feel right. Taking his time, he worked his way through each shelf, past trinkets he’d ask about later and delicate models he was afraid to touch. Logically he knew Perceptor liked everything on the shelves or the objects wouldn’t be there, but nothing felt like an anti-angry shield until he picked up a dark, smooth, flat rock. It was cold to the touch but warmed quickly in his hands, gold and red veins crackled through a black surface that - like oil - shimmered through the colours of the rainbow as it moved under the light. 

It looked like a magical gem, exactly what Scope imagined an anti-angry shield maker should look like, in reality it was a highly polished space rock that Perceptor had picked up on one of the alien planets he’d visited. Customs had been unhappy with Perceptor declaring it ‘research findings’ and refused to clear it. Perceptor would have been happy for them to take it and destroy it, but they made his life hard by deciding to open all his equipment bags to search for more contraband. Hours later, Perceptor’s gear was repacked and given the all clear. Tired, grumpy and more than a little put out, Perceptor decided to make their lives difficult too and fought to keep the rock, claiming it important to his work. The two customs officers just wanted to finish their shifts and weren’t happy about being held up so long while Perceptor meticulously filled out the correct paperwork. It was petty, but Perceptor felt better. 

But Scope didn’t know the story of the rock, to him it was just a very pretty stone. 

Walking back to Perceptor, he gently placed the stone into Perceptor’s hand and picked up his star again. /Is that one ok?/ 

“It’s perfect,” Perceptor replied with a faint smile, thinking back to the river he’d pulled it from. That had been a nice trip, he’d take Scope on the next one. “So we both have something now, are you ready to talk?” 

Scope nodded and sat down, shuffling up the sofa until his back was against the cushion and his feet dangled over the edge. /Yes, Sir, but you can go first./

“Very well. We need to clear some things up first, is that ok?” When Scope nodded he continued, “this is your home and when we’re here you’re free to be yourself, I’m not going to treat you like a slave and if you don’t want to do something then you have to tell me. You don’t need to call me Sir either, I’m not your owner.” 

Scope jerked back, panic on the bond, /you don’t want me? Are you going to throw me away?/

Perceptor was quick to clarify and soothed over the bond with gentle reassurance, “I do want you. I’ll be your guardian, but not your owner and you aren’t my slave.” 

That sounded...wrong but Scope wasn’t going to argue, not even with his anti-angry shield clasped tightly in his hands. Perceptor had never owned a disposable before, Ratchet had told him that much, so he obviously didn’t understand how it was supposed to work and needed to be shown how it was supposed to be. Scope could do that. It was going to be fine. 

“You can call me by name, I would prefer it.” 

/No sir,/ Scope whispered, /that’s disrespectful./

Perceptor shook his head, “no it isn’t.” It was a little underhanded to play Scope’s coding for his own benefit but he added, “wouldn’t it be more disrespectful to call me something that I didn’t wish to be called?”

That kept Scope quiet, Perceptor had him there. /What about outside?/

“You’ll have to call me Sir out there and act like an obedient little disposable, I’m sorry. It will keep us out of trouble though, the enforcers get uneasy with ‘loosely controlled’ disposables.” And when the enforcers got uneasy disposables went missing.

Scope didn’t miss the edge of bitterness in his voice, he actually sounded upset at the thought of being seen as an owner? The more he got to learn about Perceptor the more confusing he seemed to become. /I can do that./

“What about you, do you have anything you want to add?”

Scope shook his head and realised that he was lying, the star in his hand was to make him honest, so he took a deep vent and told the truth, /I want to learn, I liked when you used to come and teach me things. If you don’t mind, I’d like that some more. I want to be a scientist like you./

“You do?”

The rifle nodded slowly, /I know I’m not as smart as you or Tripwire, but I will try my best./ 

Perceptor didn’t doubt that for a moment, Scope had worked harder to learn written Neocybex than most of his students did in class. “What makes you want to be a scientist?” 

/I like space,/ Scope said without skipping a beat, /you brought the datapad about the shuttle that goes to watch stars die and it was the best thing I have ever heard. I want to go and explore other worlds and write papers on what I find. I want to do experiments that make everyone reading about them wish they thought of doing it first. I want to prove to everyone who thinks disposables are stupid drones that we aren’t. I am going to make a name for myself and prove that disposables are just as smart as mechs, then I’m going to go to the senate and tell them they’re wrong and I’m right./

Perceptor bit back a laugh, not at Scope’s dream, that was admirable, but at the thought of him marching into the senate and telling them they were wrong. That would never end well. “If that is what you want then I’ll be happy to teach you. There’s more to science than just space though, you can specialise in space exploration, but you would be better off finding a shuttle to teach you that.” 

/No,/ Scope barked, immediately embarrassed by his outburst, withdrawing into the pillows like he wished them to eat him up, /I mean, no thank you, Perceptor. I want to stay with you./

“We’ll work something out if that’s what you really want to do.” If Scope really put his heart into learning then he could catch up with the pre-Academy students relatively quickly and it would give him a solid grounding to start working from. It all depended on whether Scope could teach himself the basics while Perceptor taught his class. 

“I only have a few days off before I go back to work and I don’t think that taking you with me is a good idea, not for a while anyway. Tripwire is still my student and I think it’s for the best if you are kept away from him until all of this has blown over. I’d download you some worksheets so you can keep practicing your neocybex during the day. You need to learn to read and write in the primal vernacular too, you can’t speak it and not write it. I can find you some journals too if you would like? The science will be too complicated for you right now, but you like the personal accounts don’t you?”

Scope nodded, that was his favourite bit, reading how the scientists felt about the new worlds they visited and the sights they saw. /You don’t mind me being here alone?/

“Of course not.”

/What about my work? I was a good cleaner, I could earn money for you./ Learning was nice and he enjoyed it immensely, but he didn’t like the idea of being useless. 

“I don’t need you to earn money for me and I’ve already told you, you’re not my slave. I’m not going to work you like Tripwire did.” 

/Oh./ That was disappointing, cleaning had been hard work but he was very good at it and he liked acting like a real mech with a job, it made him happy.

Perceptor didn’t like how upset Scope looked about that, he should have been happy to learn, not worry about being looked after and feeling worthless. 

“You want to earn money?”

Scope nodded, /it was nice, knowing I was so good at something that people would pay me./

“Well how would you like to be my cleaner?” Perceptor asked. He hated living in mess, but cleaning was a job he rarely had time for and always hated. Employing Scope would give him a purpose again, and make him feel needed, all with the added bonus of giving Scope his own money to use as he pleased. Perceptor’s plan had been to give Scope a little pocket money each week, but having Scope earn them would teach him the real value of them. “I’ll pay you to keep the apartment tidy.” 

Scope looked every inch a confused mech, /you’ll pay me? But I am yours./

“You’re not mine, you’re your own mech. I’ll pay you and you can save up your credits to buy things you like. It will be a proper job where you earn the credits and no one takes them from you.” 

It felt like a trap, to work for his owner for credits, but having a proper job and having his own credits sounded exciting. /Are you sure, Sir? I would do it for free if it made you happy./

Perceptor nodded, a smile on his face, the excitement on the bond was infectious, “I am sure.” 

/Thank you, Sir!/ Scope was practically vibrating with pent up excitement. He could buy anything he wanted! Except there was only one thing he wanted, /would it be ok if I saved up to buy my parts back?/

“I…” Perceptor could only smile and nod. It was such a hope filled request and yet it made him sad to imagine wanting that more than anything else. Young mechs were supposed to want treats and games, frivolous things that had no real purpose but were enjoyable none the less. They weren’t supposed to want their frames back how they were created. “You can save up for whatever you want, Scope. They’re your credits.”

/Really? You don’t mind?/

The scientist shook his head, “it’s a nice goal to work towards. If you like, next time we see Ratchet, you can ask him to make you a list of everything you’ll need and we can see how much you need to save up.” 

/Please!/

It was going to be expensive, more so than Scope realised. “It’s going to take you a while to save up, you won’t be able to afford it for a while.” 

/I don’t mind, I would really like to try./ If it meant being a rifle again then he’d work hard even if it took forever!

With that enthusiasm Scope deserved to achieve the goal. “How about a deal?” 

Scope’s head cocked to the side, considering but wary, /what kind of deal?/

“When you can read and write in both Neocybex and Primal, I will buy you your barrel as a ‘well done’ gift. That will be your most expensive part and now you won’t have to save for it.” 

/Really? I’ll be the best at reading then!/ Scope was so excited that he could barely sit still, he wanted to start work right then and there. The lingering tiredness was gone, replaced with blind determination and hope. /When I do it and I am a rifle again, would it be ok if we went to the shooting range?/

“I don’t know how to shoot, Scope, I’ve never done it before. You could teach me though.” 

Now that was a fantastic idea, the very idea of being able to teach Perceptor something made his spark leap with joy, /I can teach you to be a sniper and you can teach me all the science things!/

“That sounds nice,” Perceptor agreed with a smile. It was a good goal for Scope to aim towards and he would learn a lot along the way. His only hope was that Scope wouldn’t get bored halfway through and give up because it was too hard to save. 

There were other things Perceptor had wanted to address, but Scope was in a good place and he would rather keep it that way than upset him by asking about his fuelling habits. If nothing else, his idea to give Scope a trinket to use as a way of talking freely had been a resounding success. 

A quick check of his internal clock and Perceptor suddenly understood why he was feeling tired, “Are you ready to clean up and recharge?”

/Yes, Sir. I mean, Perceptor, Sir./ 

The older mech chuckled as he pushed himself up to stand, “come along then.”

Scope had been expecting a quick wipe down with a wet cloth like he did for himself in the closet of Tripwire’s room, but the room they walked into was like nothing he’d ever seen before. It was fully tiled from floor to ceiling with a drain in the middle of the floor and a bench along the far wall, high faucets and a set of complicated taps just to the left of it. With the right angle on the shower head, the bench would be a comfortable place to sit and wash. 

/What’s this?/ Scope asked cautiously, standing just outside the doorway.

“The washracks? Haven’t you ever used one before?”

Scope shook his head, /Tripwire didn’t have one./

“No I suppose he didn’t,” Perceptor replied. The Academy accommodation did have washracks, but they were communal, one per level. “Well then,” he smiled back at Scope and gestured to him to come inside, “I have a treat for you then.” 

It didn’t look like the kind of place a treat would happen, it looked like a lab, sterile, clean and easy to wipe clean. If it were Tripwire standing in front of him then he’d be worried, but Perceptor still felt warm and genuine. Cautiously he edged inside.

/What is it?/

Perceptor turned on the shower and a warm jet of water jetted out of the shower head. The noise spooked Scope, who shot back, but the second his feet hit the floor he was edging forward again. 

“You’ll enjoy it,” Perceptor promised. He stepped under the spray himself to prove it wasn’t dangerous and grabbed for a cleaning cloth on the bench.

Scope reached out a hand, turning it over under the water, enjoying the feeling of it working down between his joints. Another step forward and he was completely submerged, a low moan of appreciation broke from his vocaliser as his frame was covered in wet heat in seeped down into every nook and crevice he wasn’t aware he had. 

It was clear from the colour of water swirling down the drain that a simple shower was not going to be enough to clean Scope properly. A lifetime of dirt was embedded deep in his frame, caught where a wet rag couldn’t reach and pushed deeper with everyday movement. It wasn’t healthy, buildup like that ruined good joints. Perceptor made a note to book them both an oil bath, that would deep clean Scope better than he came off the factory floor.

But Scope didn’t see the colour of the water. His optics were offline and he stood motionless, blissed out and relaxed under the hot water. 

“I’ll going to scrub you down with some cleaner, is that ok with you?” Perceptor asked Scope a lot of questions, giving him the chance to make up his own mind instead of just blindly following orders.

Scope nodded, purring loudly when the cloth worked circles into his frame and with the water’s help cleaned places he could never reach himself. 

Cleaning Scope was a far bigger task than Perceptor had planned for. It never occurred to him that Scope had probably never had a proper clean before, it should have now he thought about it. If he’d known that it would take so long, he would have left it for the next day and faced it more awake and alert. 

By the time Perceptor was done with him, Scope was blissed out and boneless. About five minutes into the cleaning he’d given up trying to stand on his own after and leaned heavily on Perceptor for support. The experience was unlike anything he’d ever felt before, even better than shooting with Tripwire. It wasn’t just the getting clean that felt good, but knowing it was Perceptor caring for him, showering him in the attention he’d craved from Tripwire but never received. Scope tangled their EM fields together and poured his experience down the bond, giving Perceptor permission to try and understand what it meant to him. 

Perceptor tried to work through the jumble of emotions he was being given, whatever Scope was trying to tell him wasn’t as clear as he thought it was. The emotions were all positive though so Perceptor just took them at face value.

For Scope, who could have happily have lived in that moment forever, the end came too soon. The shower was turned off and he was moved in front of a dryer that blew hot air over his frame and dried him in under a minute. Perceptor took a little longer. 

It had taken far longer to complete that task than Perceptor had imagined, but the water had been the colour of slum dust and he couldn’t leave Scope that dirty. His plan to fuel and then show Scope to his own room was all but forgotten as he fell onto his berth, choosing recharge over fuel. 

Scope crawled onto the bed and purred loudly as he happily sprawled himself out over the warmth that was his owner’s chest. His frame felt like it was buzzing, all charged up and warm, he wriggled closer to Perceptor, grinding himself down to appease the tingling.

This couldn’t keep happening Perceptor told himself, Scope needed to learn to be independent and that meant sleeping in his own berth, not forming a new dependence on a new mech.

No, he needed to stop encouraging Scope…. On the other hand, Scope was young and had been through a traumatic experience, a little comfort would go a long way towards helping him heal.

Perceptor wrapped his arm around Scope and held him close, protective and safe. No it couldn’t keep happening, but in that moment it felt right.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow he’d show Scope his own room and make him sleep in his own berth. 

Tomorrow.


	22. A Rocky Start

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've rewritten this chapter so many times and I was contemplating another rewrite, but it's been over four months since I updated this fic and I'd rather move on to the next part instead of wasting more time.

Prime Gardens was everything Perceptor hated about shopping all rolled into one tacky, overly gilded, snobby, judgemental package. 

It hadn’t always been that way. Back when Perceptor had first moved to the area, the shopping district had been known as Crystal Grove. A quaint maze of small shops and tight alleyways, each offering something different and new. It had been an artisan paradise, with family run shops selling homemade wares, a real community of friendly mechs all trying to help each other out. Every other mech was skilled at something and the ones left were learning, from chefs and treat makers to furniture makers and bodywork artists. The level of talent and care was mindblowing, each mech was more than capable of competing with the city mechs, but were considered too low class to try. A shame really, a lot of them were better. 

The only elite class mechs Perceptor used to see were the ones shopping there ironically. ‘Oh this place is so quaint’, ‘look how the lower class live, isn’t it strange? Why are they so happy with having nothing?’ ‘Shopping here is like giving to charity’, Perceptor had heard it all at some point.

But that was to change as the city itself started to sprawl. Like a mould in one of the petri-dishes in Perceptor’s lab, the city spread out its tendrils, absorbing all that was good about area. Within a few years the outskirts were swallowed up by the city and developers moved in to ‘help’ modernise the area. Luxury apartments sprung up and the whole tone of the area changed as money killed community. 

Crystal Grove was only one of the many casualties that fell to city mechs wanting a quieter place to live. It didn’t take long for the working class to be priced out of the area and within a few short years, very little remained of the original Grove. 

The charm of tight shopping streets and twisting roads was lost entirely when the construction workers moved in and turned the entire district to rubble. In its place grew a modern, clean, soulless shopping centre that was re-branded Prime Gardens in an effort to sound more upmarket than the nearby Senate Square.

The face-lift worked wonders and mechs flooded to the new popular spot. In reality there was very little difference between the two shopping centres, Senate Square was slightly smaller, but the same branded shops blazoned their names down the high streets and the same wealthy mechs pranced around to show off their overly engineered disposables. 

In Prime Gardens, expensive boutiques and eateries spiralled out from a centre square, where the original crystal courtyard - that had given Crystal Grove its name - still stood, kept as a ‘charming and quaint’ relic of the area. Bordering the square were a selection of some of the gaudiest and most expensive shops Perceptor had ever had the displeasure of having to look at. 

Thankfully he wouldn’t have to look at them for long. Unlike the peacocking mechs only there to show off and compare their flashy frames and pets with each other, Perceptor didn’t want to spend more time there than absolutely necessary. Knowing where he wanted to go and where he wanted to avoid, the scientist had pre-planned their route before they left. 

However his plan was unknowingly doomed to failure the moment he decided to take Scope. 

The shops were just opening when Perceptor and Scope arrived, but it could have been a busy evening with how many mechs were already milling around, showing off and sipping warm morning energon in fancy, engraved cubes. Most working mechs were just arriving at their places of work, but Perceptor made a grave error in assuming most of the mechs who came shopping would have jobs to start with. What mechs weren’t working he’d guessed would be sleeping off a weekend of heavy drinking hangovers. 

It wasn’t often Perceptor could admit that he’d made a monumental mistake, but as soon as he saw Scope withdraw into himself he knew he had. 

The crowds were thick and noisy, few were actually shopping so early, but those that were refused to subspace their purchases if it meant hiding what boutiques they could afford to shop at. 

It wasn’t just the designer bags being flaunted, but also the disposables being paraded around like works of art. They were in a league of their own. Although they had once been created with a purpose - usually datasticks as they were the most readily available - they now served no purpose except as money sinks. Their job was to look beautiful and make other owners jealous, nothing more than glorified pets.

And they were beautiful, Perceptor couldn’t argue with that, but it still left a sour taste in his mouth. No matter how it was painted, they were still slaves and none of them had consented to the frame upgrades. Like Scope, Perceptor knew many of them suffered with the loss of their function. 

There was one that really caught Perceptor’s eye. A pearl white mech with pale blue secondary paint that shimmered under the purple hue of the shop lights, giving the mech a distinctive ghostly appearance unlike anything he’d ever seen before. It wasn’t just the paint that had Perceptor taking a longer look than was necessary, the mech was taller that the average disposable, making him seem more lithe and graceful, two wings of light stretched out behind his shoulders, useless but attractive - like so many disposable mods. He stood proudly by his owner and leaned into the thumb stroking over the ownership mark branded into his neck cables. What the mech had been before Perceptor couldn’t even guess, but he could see how much money had been poured into the custom armour and flawless paint job. Even the mesh material draped over his frame and the delicate chains of jewellery were crafted specially for the mech, accentuating the sharp angles and graceful curves of glistening armour. Everything about the mech was crafted to be as aesthetically pleasing as possible and the disposable knew how to twist and pose to show off every asset.

He was a stunning mech, designed to be tasteful while still showing off. 

Others weren’t so lucky. More than a few were draped in the finest mesh clothing that covered nothing of their transparent frames, their internals and sparks on show to the world. Perceptor’s spark ached for them and their dead optics, long since given up being ashamed of their frames and accepting their lot in life.

The problem was, that next to any of the immaculate disposables, Scope looked like he had crawled out of a trash compactor and he was drawing attention for all the wrong reasons. 

Scope hunched over, wrapping his arms around his chest as if that alone would hold his emotions in check. The laughs at his expense were daggers to his already damaged spark.

The sniggers and snide remarks followed them down every street and around every corner as wicked eyes followed where they walked. Perceptor tried to comfort Scope with a gentle hand, but the rifle was too wrapped up in emotional turmoil to feel it. Perceptor was uncomfortable enough under the scrutiny himself and could only imagine how Scope as was feeling after hearing he was only good for a few rounds in the pit fights. 

Scope actually - and thankfully - heard very little of the conversation going on around him after the first few emotional blows. He followed Perceptor like an obedient, mindless drone, cutting out the world around him. Lifeless and subservient, locked into some kind of survival auto-pilot. 

It had never been Perceptor’s intention to see how Scope would react under stressful conditions, especially not a day after they bonded, he felt awful about what he’d done. Never in a million years would he subject anyone to this kind of abuse. Now he had to make it right before Scope associated him with the kind of owner Tripwire had been. Not owner, guardian, he didn’t want Scope calling him an owner at all. 

Necessity had brought them out. Perceptor had planned to have everything ready for when Scope came to live with him, but between the class trip and Scope’s emergency there just hadn’t been time. A quick visit to the data store would get Scope the work material he needed to continue learning, then on to the general store to pick up much needed house supplies. He had also had a treat planned for later, but after seeing Scope so lifeless and empty looking, questioned pushing him into going at all. 

Time was running out to get everything done, Perceptor’s students were due back in class in two days and there were only so many favours he could call in to have his class covered by another professor. Most of his students were paying ridiculous sums of money to learn from him and his absence would not go down well. 

There just wasn’t enough time for him to finish his ever growing to-do list, so he did his best to prioritise, with Scope’s well being being the most important…although judging by Scope’s shutdown, he’d already messed that up. How badly was the question.

Scope weighed heavily on the bond in a way that left Perceptor emotionally drained and unnaturally tired. _It’s your fault_ , Perceptor reminded himself as he grit his dentals against the ache in his chest and did his best to be the strength Scope was desperately seeking from the bond. 

Scope’s gratitude seared over the bond, giving Perceptor the will to continue being his anchor. 

It was only that heavy reassurance and warmth that kept Scope from spiralling down into a panic and collapsing on the floor like he had so many times with Tripwire. Sure, his venting was shallow and ragged and his was frame too hot to be comfortable, but he pulled himself together, straightening his frame and uncrossing his arms for Perceptor’s sake. On a quick glance it would look like he was holding himself together - shame there were no quick glances or he might have fooled a lot of mechs. Over and over again he reminded himself that Perceptor wasn’t Tripwire and he had nothing to fear, but that brought its own roller coaster of emotion.

When it came down to it, what did he really know about Perceptor? Nothing. All the data he had on his new owner was collected in private or when he was around his friends, they had never been out in public before and Scope fretted over the unknown. Tripwire had been a certainty, if he was upset then Scope knew it instantly and he could prepare himself for punishment. Perceptor was a blank sheet and Scope had no way of knowing what would upset him or how bad the punishments would be for doing so. It was like walking in a minefield and not knowing when the explosion would come or how powerful it would be. 

Scope had been so distracted by his thoughts and worries that he never saw the silver mech step out of a side street. Pain laced through his left side as the mech made contact, crashing into him with the force of a speeding truck, a reinforced knee catching Scope square in the chest, winding him into a coughing fit. /I’m sorry. I’m sorry,/ Scope wheezed, trying to mitigate the anger directed at him. The force of the blow had knocked him back, not to the floor, Perceptor had caught him before that happened. The silver mech’s lip curled in disgust when Scope dared to look up and gauge the situation. 

“How dare you touch me,” the mech growled. 

Scope flinched into the hands still settled on his shoulders. So here was the mine he’d been waiting for. 

Only Perceptor didn’t get angry at him or take the other mech’s side like Tripwire would have. “Are you hurt?” 

“Well my paintwork is sc-”

“Not you,” Perceptor said, pinning the mech with a look that made even his most bull-headed students take a step back. 

Scope shook his head when he realised the question was aimed at him, /no, sir./ His frame hurt, but it didn’t _hurt_ , he’d survive and he assumed that’s all Perceptor wanted to know.

Perceptor gently pulled on Scope’s arm and tugged him back to stand behind his legs, putting himself between the mech and his charge. 

“I saw what you did there,” Perceptor told the mech, far more calmly than he felt, “you deliberately aimed for him.” 

“I did nothing of the sort,” the mech played off the accusation with a comically shocked hand gesture, “how dare you! I wouldn’t want to touch that disgraceful passing of a disposable if you paid me too, I will probably catch rust mites just standing this close to it.” 

Perceptor stood his ground, unintimidated by the aggressive posturing. Young, bolshy mechs were his forte and he knew exactly how to handle them. He couldn’t have survived so long as a professor if he didn’t. His students were used to getting their own way and Perceptor was often the first mech they met that didn’t bend over backwards to comply with their demands.

Scope shifted nervously, peeking out from behind Perceptor’s back. It was almost unnerving how fast Perceptor went from gentle guardian to wall of immovable hidden anger. He could feel it like a red mist creeping down the bond, far scarier than anything he’d ever felt from Tripwire.

Shoppers from all over the street had stopped to ‘chat’ and mess with their bags, certainly not getting themselves a good view of the showdown. 

Perceptor wasn’t fazed. He stood, cold faced and stared the mech down, giving nothing to fuel the fire. It was a battle of wills he wouldn’t lose, he’d been faced with worse when giving a student a failing grade. 

Scope didn’t take it as well. Even without most of his battle computers he knew danger when he saw it. Gingerly he reached up to take Perceptor’s arm and give it a gentle tug, silently begging him to walk away. Perceptor was in danger why couldn’t he see that? Tripwire wouldn’t be afraid to use his fists to protect himself, but Scope wasn’t so sure about Perceptor, he was too laid back, even angry he felt too passive. Perceptor acknowledged Scope’s request, but made no move to follow through with it. The silver mech had wanted a reaction, maybe laughs from the other patrons, maybe anger or embarrassment from Perceptor, anything but the silence and stares that made him uncomfortable. 

“Well, aren’t you going to apologise?” The shopper finally demanded. 

“Why should I? You hit him,” Perceptor replied in the most condescending tone he could muster, “it is you who should apologise.”

“It is trash,” the mech growled, leaning in close to Perceptor’s personal space, “and it was in my way. Trash like that shouldn’t be on the streets. If your kink is trashy, pit fighters then that’s fine, but don’t make everyone else suffer it. It’s grotesque!”

Scope stood shocked as Perceptor continually reassured him through the bond, dissipating the anger, replacing it with promises of protection and safety. All he asked in return was that Scope trust him. Tripwire would have turned on him by now, agreeing with the mech to earn elite points, as if that alone would be enough to earn his tattered dignity back and reinstate his place in high society. The difference was that Perceptor was happy with his place, he didn’t need the approval of anyone to feel comfortable. 

The last softness in Perceptor’s frame turned into a knife as the scientist straightened his back and rolled his shoulders back, insulted and angry on Scope’s behalf. “He has every right to be on the streets, you on the other hand have no right to speak that way to us. You insult yourself by aiming low at those who can’t defend themselves.” 

“Disgusting,” the silver mech hissed, “you’re one of those dirty sympathisers.”

Again Perceptor stayed quiet, unwilling to waste his words where they would fall on deaf ears.

“Ah, forget it,” the silver mech growled as he waved his hand dismissively and stepped back, “you aren’t even worth my time.” Seeing a lost cause and a chance to escape with his pride intact, the mech gave them one last repulsed look over and marched off, telling himself he’d won by taking the high ground. 

Perceptor turned to Scope and gave him the faintest of smiles, invisible to the onlooking crowd, “lets go.” 

Scope was more than happy to comply. 

There were plenty of lessons Perceptor needed to teach Scope, some more difficult than others, but all equally important if Scope was going to survive in a world stacked against him. The first lesson had to be teaching Scope that he wasn’t alone anymore, he needed to trust that Perceptor had his back when he needed it. The incident had just given him an opportunity to start that lesson earlier than expected. As a bonus It doubled as a fairly good way to show Scope that violence wasn’t the only way to stand up for himself. Another altercation like he’d had with Catalyst would mean Scope being classed as unstable and dangerous. The only outcome for that was forced scrapping or a one way ticket into the army. Perceptor didn’t want to see either of those things happen, both would break Scope down, just one would be faster. 

There were so many questions Scope was desperate to ask, Perceptor could feel them bubbling away under the surface like a geyser about to erupt. Scope held his vocaliser, there were too many mechs around for them to have a conversation. Perceptor quieted them all with one statement of fact, “trust works both ways, Scope.” 

Scope watched his new owner warily as he followed, processor running a mile a minute as he worked to figure out what that meant. 

The first stop on their shopping trip was down one of the smaller side streets, blissfully quiet and almost void of mechs. Scope relaxed, the tension pouring off his frame in waves as he rolled his shoulders and took a deep vent of air. They walked in silence until Scope saw an opportunity to speak, but first, pulled the anti-anger star from his subspace and clutched it tightly. /Sir, why did you fight that mech?/ His voice was timid, like he was certain the anti-anger shield wasn’t enough to protect him. 

Perceptor looked down, his eyes catching the star’s tips peeking out from between Scope’s fingers. “Would you rather I let him punish you for something he started?”

/Yes,/ there was no hesitation in his answer. 

“Why?”

/Because he could have hurt you, punched you or something./

“He could have, but he could also have done that to you if I didn’t protect you. I don’t want to see you hurt.” 

/I don’t want to see you hurt either!/ Scope’s voice was still quiet enough not to attract attention, but it was thick with upset static. 

“But you would rather it was you?” 

/Yes!/ The star moved to cover Scope’s spark protectively, like he was expecting Perceptor to turn on him. /I can take it. I know how to be hurt./

“That doesn’t make it ok for me to put you in the firing line, you are no one’s punching bag, Scope. I am bigger than you and I have thicker armour, _IF_ that confrontation had turned violent, I am more than able to take care of myself and a few punches aren’t going to injure me like they would you.”

/I don’t like it,/ Scope all but whispered, /you’re going to get hurt because of me./

Perceptor stopped walking and the echo of their footsteps vanished. The empty street suddenly became much more scary in the silence. “You’re really upset about this?”

Scope nodded, optics down on the scuffed walkway, /I’m going to get you hurt. That’s as bad as me hurting you myself. I have to protect you, that’s what I was made for./

Perceptor’s voice softened, “I’m sorry, Scope. I forgot that things probably look a lot different from your perspective. You have to believe I knew what I was doing though, I wasn’t in danger, some mechs just like to talk big and cause a scene. There’s no way a mech that cared that much about his paintwork was going to risk fighting me.”

An apology? Scope wasn’t expecting that. His gaze shot up from the floor and rested on Perceptor’s sincere face. /I...thank you, Sir./

“I’m glad that you feel comfortable enough to speak up when you’re upset.”

/You aren’t mad?/

Perceptor shook his head and smiled, “I’m proud of you for making your stand when you felt something was wrong.” It perhaps wasn’t the best place, but one step at a time, at least Scope had waited until they were alone. 

Scope practically beamed, no one had ever said they were proud of him before. Warmth flowed through his frame. /Thank you./

“You’re welcome, Scope. Is there anything else you would like to say or shall we get going?”

/I don’t want to say anything else./ A deflection. The safe answer, put the power back in Perceptor’s hands.

They walked in silence again, the only sounds breaking through were their echoing footsteps and the distant sound of chatter that felt a world away. Perceptor mentally worked through the list of chores he needed to complete before going back to work. Back at home, he needed to teach Scope how to use the apartment’s facilities. It didn’t seem right that the mech could tell the difference between seven types of bleach but couldn’t turn the holoscreen on or work the energon heater. Everything Perceptor took for granted left Scope amazed and wanting more. 

Scope had an unquenchable thirst for knowledge, the subject matter was irrelevant, if Perceptor was teaching then he wanted to learn it, absorbing the information like a dry sponge submerged in water for the first time. 

Which led to the first job on the list. While Perceptor had access to countless educational databases, they were only good for supplying him with teaching material for his own students, work far too complicated for Scope to grasp - yet. Downloading basic grade work was possible, but it would draw attention to him and raise questions if anyone was to look at his download history. Questions his superiors would want answers to, answers Perceptor would need a good lie to hide behind. No, it was best to buy low grade work with credits and avoid any unnecessary attention on himself and Scope. 

The shop they entered sold datapads, it was bland on the outside, with a hand-painted sign instead of flashy neon, it read ‘Page Turners’ and listed a website address underneath. Inside was another world and Scope felt like he’d stepped into nirvana. Rows and rows of shelves, each stocked full of datapads organised into genres and reading levels. In the window was a full-size hologram of a famous actor Perceptor couldn’t name, but recognised from too many advertising campaigns. The hologram mech looked smug as it held up a copy of the actor’s new autobiography. Perceptor side stepped it, irritated that it’s placement meant he had no choice but to walk into the shop like a crab. 

They headed to the back of the store where the basic datapads were kept. Scope watched eagerly but stayed quiet, there were other mechs in the shop and he wouldn’t risk upsetting Perceptor by asking questions or touching anything. There was enough for him to do without bothering Perceptor, the store was mind-blowingly fantastic, stacked to the ceiling with knowledge and stories. Under the guise of obeying Perceptor, Scope edged closer to the nearest shelf and started slowly reading off the titles. 

Perceptor wandered between the stand alone shelves, picking up a selection of datapads, then discretely set them down where Scope could see them. “I wonder if these are too easy for him,” he pondered aloud and Scope got the message loud and clear, _play along._

Scope took a quick look over the titles and sample pages, small words in easy to read sentences, he had to agree with Perceptor, they were far too easy for him. How to tell Perceptor that though without sounding ungrateful? /Sir, I think these will be too easy for him if I can do them,/ he all but whispered, putting the hypothetical ‘him’ in the conversation as a buffer against anger. 

“Good,” Perceptor smiled, “at least he isn’t a basic reader anymore.” 

The praise, although not aimed directly at him, made Scope’s spark jump proudly. He’d done that! His hard work was paying off.

“Good afternoon, Sir, may I be of assistance?” A small, cheerful voice asked.

Perceptor turned and looked down at the smartly painted sales assistant, a well cared for datastick with the shop’s logo painted on his chest. “Thank you, I’m looking for a gift for a young mech, something educational but harder than what you have here,” he gestured to the datapads, “the mech knows how to read but not at an advanced level, these will all be too easy for him.” 

“Certainly Sir, may I ask what kind of educational datapads you are looking for? We have a wide range available from strengthening reading skills to science, history and mathematics.” 

Well history was a no go, any authorised datapad dealer would be selling the senate approved history pads, which were less history and more fiction. Anything that didn’t fit the perfect image of a flawless senate and its leaders would be conveniently forgotten and written out of historical text. No, he’d teach history himself so Scope got the whole story and not just a youngling friendly version. 

Maths was a good idea though, truth be told he hadn’t considered starting that topic yet, but Scope had picked up the card game with relative ease, the challenge of numbers would probably appeal to him. “Let me see what you have and I’ll decide from there.” 

The datastick took a moment to flick through his internal catalogue, checking what they had in stock. “If you would follow me, sir.” Three shelves back and one to the left, the mech stopped and pulled out a series of pads and offered one to Perceptor. “We have recently started stocking a wonderful series by the mathematician, Calculus. His work is interactive, by solving the puzzles, you advance the story-line. They’ve been a bestseller here for the past three months and have become well loved by both adults and younglings. Each datapad is harder than the last, but the story continues through each instalment. By the end of the series, the reader should be able to work maths problems out at an undergraduate level. The writing itself also gets harder and introduces more complicated words through each pad. If the reader is unsure of any word there is a talking glossary to help them learn.” 

Scope thought that sounded wonderful. An adventure in learning, with fun puzzles! 

Perceptor picked up the first datapad and flicked through the first few pages, until the pad wouldn’t let him continue until he’d worked out the word puzzle. It certainly seemed interesting and he knew Calculus personally, the mathematician's classes were legendary, Perceptor had snuck into one when he visited the other academy and thoroughly enjoyed the energetic, hyperactive teaching style. There was no doubt in his mind that the pads would be less like doing work and more like playing a fun game. The salesmech did a good job of selling the series too, but Perceptor balked at the price of the set, it was a lot more than he’d wanted to spend. Scope felt so excited on the bond, so bubbly and eager, that he struggled to say no, especially after what he’d put the poor mech through.

Alright, he reasoned with himself, he’d gift it to Scope as a welcome present. The mech had probably never had a real gift before and if it made him want to learn then it was worth it.

They picked up a few other pads while they were in the store; an introduction to written Primal and a selection of classics that were on sale. Perceptor didn’t read much fiction himself, but even he had read and enjoyed some of the old works. He knew Scope would enjoy reading about the spaceship of adventurers that met aliens and explored uncharted worlds.

Once the pads had been rung up and bagged, Perceptor paid with a cash credit chips so his purchases were untraceable, a little overly paranoid but better safe than sorry. If anyone found out that he was teaching Scope to be a mech, trouble wouldn’t be far behind. He subspaced the package. 

“Have a lovely day,” the datastick said cheerfully as he looked purposely at Scope, “I hope your friend enjoys the books. They’re very good.” 

Scope looked sharply to Perceptor who just shrugged and smiled, the datastick had said nothing to be upset about, he wasn’t dropping hints that he knew anything or was about to get them in trouble. Scope looked over his shoulder and gave the mech a little wave goodbye, it seemed polite. 

Outside of the shop, Perceptor took the lead again, back out onto the main road and past the boutiques and eateries. 

Scope hid his excitement behind a perfectly crafted mask of indifference and servitude, looking every inch the perfect disposable, but Perceptor could feel the waves of emotion on the bond, like a storm of pleasure and gratitude. It made Perceptor angry if he were being honest with himself, what had Scope gone through to be able to mask his emotions so well? If Tripwire did one thing well, it was beating the life out of Scope. Spiteful as it was - and stupid - the thought of revenge failing Tripwire crossed his mind. He shook it off quickly, he couldn’t think like that.

Shopping was more enjoyable without the haughty crowds, away from the centre square the shops were less upmarket and worthless to the upper class who lived for brand names and embossed logos. 

They stopped in a few shops along the way, running Perceptor’s errands, clearing his list. Scope didn’t mind at all, the fear he’d felt around the elite crowds had mostly dissipated and Perceptor made the walk enjoyable, taking it at a pace Scope could easily keep up with. His side still ached and his hip felt twisted, but Scope soldiered on, it wasn’t something that needed a medic, his self repair - basic as it was - would soon have it repaired.

After picking up some high grade as a gift for Ratchet - although Perceptor strongly suspected Wheeljack would be drinking most of it - they headed to a general store where Perceptor handed Scope the list of items, carrying the basket himself. “You can read off what we need. Cross it out when it’s in the basket so you don’t get confused.”

/Yes, Sir!/ Scope took his new responsibility with pride and delighted in striking off the words with two neat, perfectly parallel lines. A few times he stopped to sound out the words slowly, putting together the syllables like a puzzle. Perceptor was patient.

/Ummm...wash rack cleanser next, Sir and polish cloths./

“Ok.” 

The basket was almost overflowing when they reached the last few items on the list. Perceptor swapped it between his arms, sharing the dead weight. 

Cleaning products were in the furthest aisle. Scope stared down the rows of brightly coloured bottles and brands like he wasn’t sure where to start. It amazed him to see so many brands of the same thing.

“You know what you need, so I’ll let you choose.” 

Scope loved the little bit of responsibility and took his time reading each product’s name and use. Only the products with the best names and brightest colours went into the basket, boring packaging went straight back to the shelf. Perceptor kept a straight face but found the whole thing quite amusing, he wasn’t sure whether to be offended Scope obviously thought his home was filthy or amused that Scope seemed to treat the cleaning aisle like a youngling at a sweet counter. 

/Sir, do you have cleaning cloths or should I pick some up?/

“I have a few but you can get some more.” He was going to need them judging by how much cleaning Scope was planning to do.

Scope grabbed for a pack of cloths and was about to drop them into the basket when he realised that each pack contained a different combination of colours, although some doubled up. Perceptor stood beside him as patient as a saint as each pack went through a rigorous selection process. Scope discarded any pack with a red cloth, the thought of cleaning with Perceptor’s colours made him uneasy. No purple ones either, he didn’t want to see dirt on his own colours. 

The pack he finally picked made his spark flutter in amusement and maybe a little nervousness. The pack was mostly made up of Catalyst’s colours. 

Perceptor knew, the flickers of guilt on the bond told him exactly why that pack. For a brief moment he considered explaining that revenge was a bad thing, but he doesn’t, what harm will it do to let Scope work of some of the hate? It’s not like it’s doing any real harm. 

“Anything else on the list?”

Scope checked for anything that hadn’t been marked off and shook his head, /no, Sir, you have everything./

\--------

They finished the shopping list in good time. Scope was in a better mood, relishing the little pieces of responsibility he’d been given, that for a short while made him feel like a real mech. The morning’s confrontation seemed to be forgotten. 

Perceptor decided to take him for his treat. A fresh coat of paint and a deep oil soak would hopefully help Scope feel like a new mech. It wasn’t as good as getting his frame back, but it was the next best thing. Perceptor hoped that a new feeling frame would help Scope put his past behind him. 

It wasn’t a long walk out of the shopping district, but they had to move quickly if they were going to make the appointment slot Perceptor had made before they left. Scope trotted along beside Perceptor without complaint, he was used to the speedy walk of Tripwire.

/Where are we going?/ Scope asked. The shops were gone, making way for wider roads where the transformation ban lifted and race frames were setting up for an illegal drag race. 

“It’s a surprise,” Perceptor replied, “Ratchet told me it would benefit you.” 

/He did?/ Scope couldn’t imagine what it was, but resisted the temptation to pry more answers just in case it made him lose the treat. 

Perceptor nodded, “he said it’s just what you need and that you would enjoy it.”

The road led up to a warehouse district that housed a parts factory, a recycle plant and several large work units. Industrial strength paint peeler polluted the air, sharp and tangy, made stronger by the heat radiating from the recycling plant. 

Scope grew more nervous the closer they got. The area didn’t look nice, there were no streetlights to light the dark shadowy alley ways and the warehouses and work garages looked menacing. He’d learnt enough to speed read the hand-painted signs tied to the gates of the estate, ‘unwanted scrap brought here, top prices paid’. He stopped, frozen. Perceptor had seemed so nice!

Perceptor was six steps ahead before he realised he was walking alone. He looked over his shoulder to see where Scope had got to and saw him shaking like a leaf just outside the gates. “What’s wrong?” 

Scope’s voice was thick static the first time he tried to speak and he took a nervous step back when Perceptor took one towards him. 

“Scope, I can’t help you if you don’t talk to me.”

The rifle shook his head and wrapped his arms around himself. /Please don’t,/ he managed to choke out between shuddering vents of baking hot air. He locked himself down like he did to survive perceived dangers.

Terror leaked through the bond, at first it felt like the same upset from earlier in the day, but it kept coming thicker and darker until it was fully fledged fear. Perceptor’s head spun, he was already tired from supporting Scope all day and the flood of fresh, unfiltered emotion wrecked him. He leaned on a nearby wall for support and toned the bond down until it was a whisper of feeling more than a torrent. “Come here, Scope.” 

His first order. Scope was coded to obey, without thinking about it, his feet walked him forward. 

/Please. I can...please./ He sounded so small, so fragile. 

“Take a deep vent and calm down, then tell me what’s wrong. I can’t read your mind.” _But your emotions say enough_ , he almost added and quickly snapped his mouth shut before Scope could hide that from him too.

Tension held Scope’s frame rigid. Perceptor could hear the way the pistons and joints creaked under the stress, popping and snapping in ways that obviously wasn’t comfortable. 

“Scope, talk to me, don’t go silent.”

He wasn’t trying to be silent, but his vocaliser had frozen up along with the rest of his frame. There were times in his life he would have walked willingly into the smelter, most of those times involved Catalyst, but he didn’t want to be recycled now, not when his future looked bright for the first time.

“Scope?” Perceptor was worried now, he stood up and knelt down beside Scope, gently taking hold of the quaking shoulders before him.

/Please,/ Scope managed to squeak out from his quivering voicebox.

“I don’t understand what you’re upset about,” Perceptor replied, his voice soft, “I said this was something good for you did I?” 

Scope’s vents hiccuped loudly, /I don’t know what I did wrong, I did what you said. I followed your orders, I was good./

“I never said you weren’t,” Perceptor frowned, “what brought this on?” 

Scope turned and raised a shaking arm to point at the sign on the gate. Then he did the only thing he could think of, he begged. /Please, sir, I don’t want to. I’ll be good, I won’t do anything wrong ever again. I’ll be the best mech you ever had./

“What are you…” As his eyes followed Scope’s hand, it all suddenly clicked together, “oh.” He couldn’t help it, he laughed, covering his optics and shaking his head, “no, Scope you’ve got it all wrong.” 

Scope didn’t take the laughter well, but keeping true to his promise of being good, he said nothing and didn’t move away to escape it. The only thought that was clear in his mind was that the anti-anger star didn’t work, it had been a lie, Perceptor just hid his anger well.

Perceptor pinched the bridge of his nose, if Scope understood that there were different kinds of laughter, he would have heard that Perceptor’s was that of relief and exasperation at himself. “Scope, I am truly sorry. It never even crossed my mind that you’d think that way,” although it probably should have and he made a mental note to be much more careful, “they don’t recycle mechs here, they recycle waste. Old machinery and scrap from torn down buildings.” It had actually been built to process the huge amounts of useless metal from when Crystal Grove had been torn down.

Scope’s vents were still hiccuping, /you aren’t going to recycle me?/

“No, never,” Perceptor replied without missing a beat, “think about it, Scope, you’re a smart mech and you’ll see it doesn’t make sense. Ratchet worked hard to get you fixed up, he put countless unpaid hours into repairing all the damage to your frame. Do you really think he’d send you home with someone he thought would endanger your life? It’s a waste of his time and skill to do that. Even if you decide he would do something so awful, I wouldn’t need to bond you to scrap you and I wouldn’t be spending my time teaching you things. I wouldn’t spend my credits on datapads for you to learn from or be protecting you from mechs on the street. If I had wanted to scrap you, I wouldn’t have invested in you and given you a life.”

Scope shrunk back like the words were a physical punch in the stomach. He was more upset about upsetting Perceptor than he had been with the thought of being scrapped. /I’m sorry, Sir./

Perceptor sighed, realising that must have come off a lot harsher than it was intended. Scope wasn’t one of his students, he needed to remember that. It was a learning curve for both of them and they hadn’t started on the best footing. 

Too tired and annoyed to go and sit in a cramped waiting room, Perceptor called the treat off for another day. He suspected Scope would prefer home to having strange mechs touching him, although if he was honest, it was more that he was annoyed with himself and Scope and their delicate situation where one wrong move meant Scope would switch from happy to fearful. It had only been a day and Scope was the most exhausting mech he’d ever met, so needy and ready to switch emotions on a single word.

“Lets just go home and have dinner, you can read one of your new pads if you’d like?” 

Scope nodded mutely and stepped back as Perceptor stood. 

They walked home in silence, the tension between them almost tangible. The bond amplified everything, setting a cycle into motion, feeding the circle of upset until both mechs pulled each other in the void. 

Scope kept to himself for the rest of the night, keeping his distance from Perceptor and not speaking unless he was addressed first. Not only did he feel ashamed for upsetting Perceptor, but humiliated by him too. 

Perceptor tried to put the day behind him, placing the blame on them both being tired and new to each other. Sitting down with a cube in his favourite spot was bliss. He’d tried to tempt Scope into sitting and watching a documentary with him, but nothing he said could drag the rifle from his silence. 

It should have rung warning bells.


	23. Calmer waters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one took so long, certain comic events made it very hard for me to get back into the TF fandom. 
> 
> On the plus side I finally get to introduce a character I've been dying to write for many chapters.

Perceptor’s morning had been loud, full of obnoxious and needy students, hurling insults at each other like dodgeballs. It wasn’t unusual, more a weekly occurrence. Perceptor had grown accustomed to feeling like a sparkling sitter rather than the over qualified professor he was. It never took much to start the insults flying, today it had been Redwing’s scuffed paint and the accusation he was secretly interfacing the mathematics professor for better grades. Somewhere between the bickering and the ‘your creator’s so stupid’ jokes, Perceptor reminded himself with a sad sigh that his students were some of the smartest and most promising minds on Cybertron. 

With all the interruptions, morning class run late, eating up the lunch break and continuing into the afternoon. The students complained, Perceptor dragged his planned lesson on, stopping each time he was interrupted and starting again. Petty, but his already frayed temper wasn’t helped by immature squabbles and if he was going to be miserable then so were they.

Any normal mech, after spending hours cooped up in a classroom, would leave when finally told to take a break. Perceptor’s students were not normal, half of them filed down to the front of the class and lined up outside his office door, waiting for their chance to speak with him in private. Perceptor took one look at the long line and shook his head. That was something for future him to deal with, present him wanted to fuel and seek out a quiet place to rest. 

He opened his office door so they could collect their mechs and then marched out, feeling a disgusting amount of satisfaction when their whining calls of abandonment followed him. 

Exhausted and irritable, forced from his comfortable office and with nowhere else to go, he settled for the teacher’s lounge.

It wasn’t a large room, more of an afterthought addition to the building than one carefully planned out like the spacious classrooms. Hidden at the back of the building between two storage rooms, the room was long and thin, with a window at the far end and a tiny kitchen area. A cramped little lounge for all the science block staff to use, although the professors rarely used it, preferring their comfortable offices to the claustrophobic lounge. As such it became the hangout of teaching assistants and classroom aides, a place for ‘the other’ staff to rest. 

Perceptor opened the door and slipped inside, hit immediately by the strong acidic smell of over processed energon, burnt and smoky, entirely unwelcoming and all too thick in the air.

The silver lining was the room was empty and quiet. He quickly decided that the unpleasant smell was an acceptable price to pay for solitude. 

The source of the stench was a cube of forgotten energon boiling away on the hot plate, it’s gluggy brown contents bubbling away like thick tar. Perceptor wrinkled his nose at the pungent odor and dropped the cube in the trash, placing his own cube in its place. 

Mechs had tried to make the cramped room feel comfortable with soft inviting chairs and bright posters on the drab painted walls. There were simple personal touches, splashes of colour to liven the place up. On one of the tables sat a half played game of chess - Perceptor mentally finished it in six moves, next to it sat a datapad explaining the rules and a scorecard for card games. A low coffee table sat nestled in a ring of chairs, overflowing with trashy novels and science journals. Perceptor thought it all felt very friendly and inviting, but imagined it was loud when all the seats were taken and everyone was talking at once. 

Energon done, Perceptor flicked off the hot plate and carried his cube to the far corner where a comfortable looking sofa was snugly tucked away under the large window. Cool air breezed into the room once it was opened, slowly erasing the foul smell from existence. A bone weary sigh escaped him as he dropped down into the soft cushions and turned his face into the breeze. Legs kicked out in front of him, crossed at the ankle, hands lose in his lap, elbows on the chair’s arms, helm tilted back against the cushion, Perceptor felt comfortable for the first time in more days than he dared count.

For some time he didn’t move an inch except to wriggle deeper into the cushions, absorbing the comfort like a sponge. Exhaustion showed on his frame. Going back to teach his afternoon class felt like a lifetime away as he let his mind wander, lulled by the distant laughter of students loitering away their free periods. 

There wasn’t long until the end of the academy day and he was so tired that he spent a good few minutes debating going back at all, sleep sounded far nicer than facing his bratty students again.

But that wasn’t to be. 

Perceptor couldn’t guess how long he’d been drifting away, but it wasn’t long enough. The door creaked open and someone entered, ruining what had been a perfect moment. Slowly Perceptor onlined his optics and turned his head towards the sound, to put a name to his intruder. 

A medium sized mech with plum coloured paintwork glistened under the harsh overhead lights, silver trimming buffed to a high shine. On the mech’s arms, delicately painted constellations in white and gold. Custom work, expensive. The mech moved without a sound as he blindly navigated the room, his face buried in a datapad. Not a mech Perceptor had ever seen before, he’d remember a fine frame like that. 

“Watch out for Torrent’s chair,” the mech muttered to himself, “mech never tucks it in.” He stopped, kicked the chair under the table and continued on, still without looking up. 

Perceptor watched as the mech took a cube from his subspace and placed it on the heater. “Ok, so, I’m going to need to get that holovid back for tomorrow’s class,” he said quietly, jotting down the note on his pad, “need to find out who borrowed it last. Slides too, oh and request a projector before it’s too late, let's not make that mistake again. Photon’s going to need to fill out the request forms before he leaves.” 

“The heater isn’t on,” Perceptor said, feeling a moment of pity for the mech who wasn’t about to notice it on his own any time soon. 

The mech practically squeaked as he spun on his heel, datapad clutched tightly to his chest. “Oh! Sorry, I didn’t know I wasn’t alone.” The voice was soft and well rounded, another custom, Perceptor noted.

Perceptor smiled softly and shook his head, “it’s my fault I should have said something when you entered but you looked busy. Do you often make a habit of talking to yourself?”

The mech’s faceplate heated and he rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly, “Yeah, Photon says it’s a bad habit and that I’d talk myself even if I was offline. Most of the time I don’t even know I’m doing it, just seems to make things easier, y’know?” 

“Personally no, but I have a friend who talks to his work tools like they’re mechs, he thinks they work better if they know what he wants them. He’s even named his favourite screwdriver.” 

The mech’s face lit up, “yeah? Sounds like my kind of mech.” 

Perceptor smiled politely and turned away, busying himself with a blank cryptic crossword pulled from his subspace. His energon was cold, indicating just how long he’d been sat there, he grimaced as he took a sip, doing his best to ignore the acidic tang that only came from cooled energon. There had been a time he could do the most complex puzzles in under ten minutes, today wasn’t one of those days, five minutes later and he still hadn’t entered a single word.

The other mech pottered around, mixing more additives into his cube than seemed fair for his fuel tank to deal with. The once pink cube glimmered purple as he crossed the room and stood a short distance from Perceptor. “Do you mind if I join you? These are the best seats in here, but I won’t bother you if you want to sit alone.” 

Perceptor shook his head and gestured with his chin to the chair opposite, “go ahead. I shouldn’t be in here anyway, don’t let me ruin your break.”

“Thanks.” The mech sat gratefully and sipped his energon as he tossed up the pros and cons of striking up a conversation. “There’s no reason you shouldn’t be in here, you’re staff here and this is the staff room.” 

“I have my own office,” Perceptor replied, “I usually have lunch there.” 

“Not today?” 

“It is...busy and I was seeking some quiet to gather my thoughts.” 

“Oh,” the mech shifted, “I’ll just be quiet then. I don’t mind leaving if you’re still looking for some solitude.” 

Perceptor set his datapad down and shook his head, “it’s fine.” 

“I’m Higgs by the way. So you know what to call me when you decide to tell me to get lost,” he smiled cheekily and Perceptor couldn’t help but smile back.

Up close, Higgs was a handsome mech with a gentle, expressive face. Bright blue eyes were set into a fine featured face, the corners crinkled when he smiled. His frame made no sound as he moved, no pistons working or hydraulic pumps, not even the flutter of fans. Silence. Obviously from a family who could afford expensive custom work, a class of frame far above Perceptor’s own. 

“I’m Perceptor,” he said as he reached over to take the mechs offered hand. Warm, gentle but firm. 

“Oh I know who you are,” Higgs laughed, “even blind I’d know that. I’ve seen enough of your presentations to know you by your voice alone.”

“You have?” That was strangely flattering.

“Oh yeah, I mean your holovids are a staple in plenty of classrooms,” Higgs said, taking a long drink of his cube then leaning forward on his crossed arms.

“You’re a student then?” 

“Nah,” Higgs said with a shake of his head, arms out as he gave a small shrug, “I mean I wanted to be but it didn’t work out that way.”

“May I inquire as to why not?”

Higgs chewed on his bottom lip and picked at the rim of his cube, wiping away a long drip before it had a chance to touch the table. “I don’t want to bore you with that stuff, let’s just say that I got into some bad stuff when I was young. Thought I was invincible, y’know? All stupid stuff, just a young group of mechs all with too much money and not enough sense. Anyway, when it came to applying to Academies, I was too old and even if I wasn’t they wouldn’t take me because I have a record.”

“I’m sorry.” Perceptor frowned. Higgs didn’t look like ‘that’ kind of mech, he seemed too smart and mature for bad decisions.

Higgs laughed, “nah, it’s not your fault, it’s all on me and my own bad choices. I got real lucky though, Photon found me, gave me a second chance when it looked like I was going down the wrong path again. He signed me up as his class assistant so I could sit in on all his lessons, I help out and learn at the same time. Kind of a ‘pay your own way’ kind of deal. Work for learning. Photon’s a good mech, helps me when I get stuck and says he’ll pay for me to take the final exam when he thinks I’m ready.” He grinned broadly and Perceptor’s spark skipped a beat. 

“That’s very admirable of you, it sounds like you’ve found your feet.” 

“Yeah, I have. I owe it all to Photon though, he’s great. He made me part of his family when mine wrote me off as a waste.”

Perceptor frowned, still trying to imagine what terrible things Higgs could have done. Knowing the tower mechs - and Higgs was an elite tower mech Perceptor had no doubt - it probably involved stimulants and racing. “What is it that you eventually want to be?”

Higgs hummed and leaned back in his chair, “I’d kinda like to be a teacher I think. Make a difference to mechs like Photon did for me. Pay back the kindness and all. I want to teach like I’d want to learn, make things fun. I’ve worked out that that’s the key, you can’t just teach, you have to make students want to learn, otherwise you may as well be talking to a brick wall.” 

Perceptor chuckled, “trust me, even if you make it enjoyable it still feels that way sometimes.”

“Ahh, well maybe you just don’t have the right students.”

Perceptor missed the flirtatious tone and huffed a small vent from his fans, “yes, well my students are all lining up outside my office waiting for their chance to ask questions I’ve already answered at least twice today. They should learn to listen.”

“And you’re ignoring them?”

“No,” Perceptor said defensively, “this is my break too. I have a right to an hour without them pestering me.”

Higgs raised his hands in apology, “hey, no judgement here. Classrooms are stressful, even I like getting away and I’m just the helper, must be worse for you.”

“Sorry,” Perceptor sighed. He sank down into his chair and shook off the bad moon sitting over him like a cloud of acid rain, “it’s been a long week.”

“Well you know what they say,” Higgs almost purred, “a problem shared is a problem halved. Lay it on me.”

Higgs’ smile was infectious and Perceptor couldn't stop himself smiling back and lapping up the kindness like it was the finest energon. It felt so long since he’d seen a friendly face, Scope was...difficult to live with and his home life was tense on the best of days, hateful on the worst. 

Yet here he was, about to bare his dirty chassis to a mech that he’d known for less than an hour. But, he considered, a neutral party could be just what he needed, a fresh opinion or new take on the situation. “Alright,” he took a deep vent and breathed it out slowly, “okay, so a...friend just moved into my apartment a week ago and it’s been a lot more stressful than I imagined. My apartment used to be quiet, but now it doesn’t feel like my home any more. It feels petty and I’m angry at myself for being annoyed at him when he needs my help. I want to help him but I also don’t want him there any more. I am walking on thin ice around him and it is exhausting.” 

“Is it a friend or a _friend_?” Higgs asked.

Perceptor missed the unasked question, the subtle ‘are you single?’. “Oh no! Nothing like that, he’s just a friend in need.”

“And you can’t ask him to leave?”

“Well I could but I don’t want to do that. Like I said, I want to help him.”

“So you want to help this friend, but you don’t want him in your home, BUT you also don’t want him gone?”

Perceptor managed a weak smile, “that about sums it up, yes.”

“Well that’s a conundrum then. The Roommate Paradox.” Higgs drummed his fingers on the table lightly, face scrunched up as he thought. “You said it’s been a week?” At Perceptor’s nod he continued, “well that’s not very long to adjust to one another. He moved into your home, I’m sure he’s feeling out of place.” 

“Oh he is, which is part of the problem. It wouldn’t be so bad if he made himself at home, but he’s trying to preserve my space. He tiptoes around, too scared to move anything in case it makes me angry, he cleans every minute he’s awake because he fears being seen as lazy. He jumps if you so much as glance in his direction and he avoids me like I’m made of rust.” Perceptor sighed, “he’s just a scared mech and I’m trying to be easy on him, I just…”

Higgs hummed, “you know when mechs start dating and everything is good and nothing feels like it could ever go wrong? The whole honeymoon period they never think will end, so they move in together and suddenly they can’t stand each other? Every little thing is an annoyance, every piece of unwanted attention is an attack? It kinda sounds like you’re going through that. You said he was a friend so I assume you’ve had a good time together, now you’re living together you’re dealing with the rocky bit where most couples break.”

Perceptor stared at the smaller mech with his pleased grin and friendly attitude. He’d managed to hit remarkably close to the truth, granted Scope wasn’t his lover, but the rest made sense. “I think you might be onto something.” 

“Yeah?”

Perceptor nodded, “so how do you rectify the rocky part?”

“I’m not an expert, I managed to thoroughly mess this part up myself, but as they say, communication is key in any relationship. You have to talk or you’ll stew in your own anger and only resent your friend more. I’ve lost good friends because we never spoke when things were prickly between us, it’s a stupid reason to lose someone.”

Perceptor chuckled weakly, “yeah you aren’t the first person to say that.” 

Higgs grinned, looking mighty pleased with himself, “see, I’m more than just a pretty face.” 

“Can’t argue there,” Perceptor replied. Pretty indeed. Smart too. Nice package. “I guess it’s all just a shock, I didn’t realise how hard it was going to be. It’s my own fault for walking in blind.”

“At least you’re trying,” Higgs replied, “I don’t know many mechs who’d put themselves out for a friend in need. Where I come from it’s a ‘each to their own’ kind of deal, if you mess up then you’re on your own, no one helps you. If you die in a gutter then that’s your own fault, even if you tried your hardest to climb out. It’s sad, good mechs have fallen because all their doors were closed on them. Photon gave me a second chance and I turned out pretty good, I love him and he’s my inspiration to be a better mech. Maybe one day you'll be your friends version of Photon, and you’ll look back on now with fond memories and realise that it was worth it because you got to save a life when no one else would.”

Perceptor let that sink in. Higgs was right, he was Scope’s second chance. No, his last chance. If he gave up now just because adjusting to him was too hard then Scope would suffer a horrific fate. No, he couldn’t let that happen. 

Communication. He could do that and vowed when he got home, he’d make an effort to bridge the gap between them.

“Thank you. You were right, I do feel lighter.” 

Higgs grinned, his whole frame seeming to glow with pride, “I told ya. A problem shared is a problem halved.”

“I think you’ve more than halved mine.” 

“Even better,” Higgs purred.

Perceptor checked the time and winced, he’d given his class an hour for lunch and he’d been gone an hour and forty minutes, he’d be lucky if his students hadn’t gone home already. Student’s rule book, rule one - if the teacher is twenty minutes late then lessons are cancelled.

“I am late,” he frowned, “I am never late. As enjoyable as your company is, I need to go and see if my students are still around or not.” He stood quickly and deposited his empty cube in the overflowing compactor, “thank you. If the teaching doesn’t work out then I’m sure you would make a great councillor.”

Higgs scoffed playfully, “and waste my scientific knowledge? I don’t think so.”

Perceptor smiled back, “well I don’t know enough about your scientific knowledge enough to judge it, but your advice is pretty good.”

Higgs grinned and poked his glossa out cheekily.

\-------------

Perceptor’s classroom was empty. Expected but annoying.

His students didn’t take being ignored well. In a last act of defiance they left their empty cubes and snack packets littering the floor and seats. Perceptor pinged a note to the cleaners to leave his room as is. If his students wanted to act like mindless animals then they would live like it too. On top of that punishment - which would no doubt earn him a few angry messages - he doubled their homework for the weekend. 

Perceptor grabbed the essentials from his desk and turned off the lights as he left. If his students were taking an early day then so was he.

\------------

The walk home was easy. Perceptor took his time to meander through the alleys, past the factories and warehouses, the cheap apartment blocks and bars. No one in their right mind could call it the ‘scenic route’ but it was one Perceptor enjoyed none to less. The fresh air - questionable given his proximity to the factories spewing out pollutants - helped to clear his head and free up the last tendrils of his bad mood. It had lightened significantly since his talk with Higgs, but still sat too close for comfort. 

It wasn’t Scope’s fault, he needed to remember that. The only blame to be had lay with Tripwire. Scope’s personality was learnt, the bad traits a lingering effect of protecting himself the only way he knew how. Perceptor had seen through the cracks in Scope’s walled personality, back in the medbay when his guard was down and Scope had wanted to be friends. There was a real personality buried in his somewhere, under the submission and guarded actions, Perceptor just needed to find it.

It hadn’t taken long before Tripwire had a new mech, waltzing him into the classroom like Scope had never existed. He was a chirpy little thing, glossy silver and blue-grey, the other disposables had instantly taken a liking to him and made him a part of their group. His name was Gigabyte, but the other datasticks nicknamed him Giggles. A fitting name from what Perceptor had heard.

Gigabyte had been brought with the credits Scope had earned from cleaning. Perceptor could tell he hadn’t been a cheap buy, there was care in Gigabyte’s frame and paintwork, certainly not 'off the shelf' stock. Not second hand either, he was too new to the world for that, too naive and excitable. 

Just how much had Scope earned Tripwire? Tripwire seemed well off, even after splashing out on a datastick with a matching paint job. Perceptor would love an answer but knew he wouldn’t get one.

Perceptor kicked a discarded additives container to the gutter, watched as it skipped along the ground and finally came to rest in a drainage grate. There was a pang of guilt for littering, but some disposable class cleaning mech would come by and pick it up, his living earned by how much he collected. Really, Perceptor was doing them a favour by leaving it there.

Such was the twisted world he lived in.

There was a nice energon treat shop by the park, too far out of the way for Perceptor to visit often, but his long walk had brought him close enough to make a quick detour. 

He left the family run shop with a bag of energon candies and two cubes of filtered energon. A rare treat for himself, but fully deserved he decided.

Scope really wasn’t so bad, bless the mech was trying. Perceptor needed to stop expecting so much so fast. 

\--------------

As Perceptor expected, Scope was cleaning when he arrived home. The rifle was on his hands and knees, scrubbing at a stubborn stain on the kitchen floor. He’d have no luck removing it, Perceptor had tried, scrubbing it with the strongest chemicals available. It had been there when he moved in, what caused it was a mystery.

“Hello, Scope.” 

Scope spun to face the door, dropping the scourer to the floor, /hello, Sir. You are home early?/

Perceptor nodded and set his package down on the work surface. His walk home had taken far longer than usual, but it was still early. “I am. I thought we could do something together if you wanted.”

Scope stood, head cocked to the side like he was analysing a complex puzzle. Perceptor was an enigma, a riddle with a hidden answer. Scope disliked uncertainties. /Like what, Sir?/

“We could watch a movie or sit down together and I’ll teach you numbers and basic math? Anything you like, Scope.”

/Don’t you have work to do that’s more important than me?/

Perceptor shook his head and leaned back on the counter, aware of how careful Scope was being to hide his emotions and body language. “I think it’s important we start doing some things together. Would you like to sit down and talk?”

The bond wobbled, Scope quickly lunged to control it. Bingo. Perceptor didn’t move, he waited for Scope to voice his choice. 

/But I haven’t finished my cleaning?/

Close enough. Perceptor chuckled, Scope flinched back, “Scope, this apartment has never been so clean.”

Scope’s frame loosened, his hands uncurling from tight fists to lay limp at his sides. It was the closest Perceptor had seen him relaxed since he moved in. 

“You need to take a break, I don’t expect you to be cleaning all day every day. That would be a horrible life to live.” 

/But I like cleaning, Sir./

Did he though? Perceptor stopped himself from pushing Scope and backing him into a corner. He wanted Scope to ask himself why he liked cleaning, to analyse his actions and come to his own conclusions, but that was asking a lot. Instead, “Let me heat up some energon and then we’ll sit down and talk, is that ok?”

Scope nodded, /I could heat it up if you like, I remember what you said about using the hot plate./ He’d used it for his own energon all week and only injured himself on it once, he thought he’d successfully hidden the evidence of his burnt hand from Perceptor, but he hadn’t. The blackened paint and strategic shielding of it were a dead giveaway, it had to be tender but Scope had said nothing and Perceptor didn’t push it. A quick note to Ratchet confirmed his thoughts that, while weak, Scope’s self repair would eventually fix the damage. If Scope wanted help with it then he assumed he would ask.

“It’s ok, I’ll do it, you wash the chemicals off your hands before they burn.” 

\----------

The gleaming metal of the kitchen table felt like a chasm between them. Scope sat, looking half his usual size as he hunkered down on the too-big chair, shoulders drawn in, small, submissive. Perceptor wondered where to start, searching for a safe question to break the ice, one that wouldn’t have Scope immediately clam up.

“Are you happy here?” That seemed like as good a start point as any.

Scope raised his head, offered a curt nod but said nothing more.

“Scope. Please, I am willing to try, but you have to give me something to work with. Things aren’t good right now but if we work together we can make this better.” 

/I want to be better!/ Scope said in alarm, /I don’t mean to be bad./

“You haven’t been bad,” just difficult, but that didn’t need to be said.

/But you’re angry with me all the time?/

“I’m not angry, I’m…” what was the word he wanted? There were plenty that fit - exhausted, stressed, unsure, unsocial, on edge, irritated - yet none fit with what he wanted to say. “I’m not angry,” he said, leaving it at that, “both of us need time to adjust.” Better. 

Scope shifted in his seat, face expressionless but somehow still etched with uncertainty. He could do this, he told himself, he could be a good mech for Perceptor, do what was being asked of him. /Ok. What do you want me to do?/

“Help me understand you. Give me something to work with.”

Scope was silent, visibly uncomfortable. Still, he tried his best to answer. When he spoke his voice was hushed, like he was pouring out his soul and wanted no one to hear the secrets. /I...Tripwire. I wasn’t a normal disposable with him, he didn’t want me to be...no that’s not it, it’s that I wasn’t what he wanted. He wanted me to be what I couldn’t be and when he finally realised he couldn’t use me for what he wanted, he made me useful other ways./

Perceptor wanted to correct Scope, assure him that he wasn’t ‘disposable’, but didn’t through fear of silencing him. 

Scope waited for Perceptor to say something and when that didn’t come he ended up spilling more than he’d intended. /Most days I hardly saw Tripwire at all, I was already working before he woke up and I didn’t finish until he was going to bed. Sometimes we didn’t speak for weeks, he’d leave me door numbers on a pad by the door and energon on the table for when I got home - although sometimes he forgot that part - but that was as far as our communication went. I am used to being on my own and staying out of sight, that’s what was wanted of me./

“What about Chronicle, he lived with you too didn’t he? Didn’t that help you?”

Nervously Scope shook his head, /I.../ He stopped, pulled the anti-anger star from his subspace and squeezed it tightly in his hand, /you won’t tell Tripwire will you?/

“Never,” Perceptor promised without a second thought, “and you don’t need to worry about him any more. He cannot touch you ever again, I promise.”

Scope nodded, rolled the star over in his hands, /ok./ He took a deep breath and vented it out slowly, /I hated Ronnie./

“You did? Why?” Chronicle had been a cheerful mech with a sweet spark, the other disposables had liked him and his stories. It was hard for Perceptor to imagine anyone really disliking him.

/Because...Tripwire never said he was coming, I came home one day and he was there, acting like it was his home and he’d always been there. I recharged in the storage room, it was my space, it was where I was safe. Then Ronnie was there too, always too close, always taking my stuff and and talking too much. He told me how he’d been sent as a replacement because Tripwire had told his caretakers that his own disposable was broken. Tripwire was so good to him, let him sleep in his berth and gave him proper energon, listened to him talk and laughed at his stories. In my whole life with him, I only remember Tripwire being nice to me a few times, but he was always nice to Ronnie, treating him like he was so special. Ronnie thought it too, he said we were in different leagues and I wasn’t as good as him. He called me cheap and bragged about his ‘amazing’ and ‘expensive’ upgrades./ 

“I’m sorry, Scope, that must have hurt you. For what it’s worth, I don’t think you are cheap.”

/You got me for free,/ Scope said bitterly and dropped his head until Perceptor was completely out of his eyesight. His voice was barely above a whisper, /but I don’t think I was out of his league, I think he was out of mine./

Perceptor stalled, of all the things he was expecting to hear, that wasn’t it. “What makes you think that?”

Scope looked up warily, barely registering Perceptor’s relaxed posture before dropping his head back down. He rolled the star again, subtly reminding Perceptor that he had it. Finally he palmed it with his fingers between each point. /Ronnie was so scared if Tripwire wasn’t around, he used to sit on the berth and whimper. Any time he was on his own he clung to me, like I was supposed to look after him. I spent most of my life alone, out working and dealing with strange mechs. I can look after myself, but he couldn’t even do that. He had all these fancy mods, but what good did they do him?/

“So you think you’re better than him because you’re independent and he’s not?”

Scope nodded, his voice caught in his vocaliser.

“That’s...Scope you’ve had different opportunities, you’ve learnt to be independent but he never had that chance. Just because you can do something someone else can’t doesn’t mean you should think you’re above them.”

/No that’s not it...sometimes when I think about Tripwire, I think I had him all wrong. I don’t know how to explain it. It’s like...I couldn’t do what he wanted so he made me useful other ways./

“You said that already.”

/No,/ Scope was getting agitated, struggling to find his words to articulate his thoughts. He shuffled in his chair and set his shoulders back, balling his free fist on the table. Tense like a coiled spring. Perceptor could almost see him gritting his teeth - if he had any. /Tripwire trusted me in his own way. He wasn’t a good mech. He didn’t _like_ me, but he trusted me. He sent me out into the world on my own because he knew that I’d do what he ordered and come home when it was done. He taught me to look after myself but he didn’t teach Ronnie that./

Perceptor paused and sat back. After taking a drink from his cube he spoke, “it sounds like you admire him for that.”

/Wouldn’t you? I was created to be a slave, to follow orders, to shoot when asked and never ask questions. Tripwire hurt me in a lot of ways and destroyed who I should have been, he stripped me of my purpose and being, but he didn’t abandon me to nothing. He taught me to survive on my own and gave me a chance to prove I could be something that I wasn’t programmed to be. I wasn’t coded to be a cleaner or be independent, but I do both things well. You’re a real mech, Sir, I don’t think you can understand it./

“You’re right, I can’t grasp what you’ve been through, but I do understand your feelings. You’re pleased you were given a chance to prove yourself and that you’ve come out of a bad situation with something good to show for it. You should be proud, not everyone could do that.”

Scope nodded, /so when I said I don’t think Ronnie was in my league, I don’t mean it in a bad way./

“I think I get it. You are learning from experience, teaching yourself to be a better mech, but Ronnie relied on someone else to tell him what to be?”

Scope nodded again and looked up, a surge of pride in his tone, /yes. I made me, I worked hard to make me, I suffered to become what I am. Ronnie is a product of his owners whims, made to be what they wanted him to be, not what he wanted to be./

“I’m proud of you, Scope,” Perceptor said, it left his mouth before he thought about it, but it was the truth. 

Scope ducked his head, suddenly stricken shy. /I don’t mean to upset you, but everyday is a fight for me. My coding demands I obey, my spark wants to fight that and be my own mech. I know what Tripwire wanted of me, but I don’t understand you. You never give me an order, you always pick your words carefully, you make me choose what I want instead of telling me. It’s...my processor isn’t designed to pick between two choices, it’s designed to obey. Fighting that all the time is...have you ever done something so hard that your processor slows down while it tries to figure it out?/

Perceptor nodded, it didn’t happen often but he knew the feeling of trying to work through sluggish responses. It was never a pleasant experience. “Yes.”

/That’s what happens to me every time I have to choose something. All my minor processes shut down to free up space. It’s a constant reboot of systems that makes my processor hurt and drains my fuel reserves. My processor has been slow since I got here, it’s always overworking./

Perceptor felt awful. Granted his intentions had been good, but the outcome had been a disaster. “I’m sorry, Scope, I didn’t know. I thought giving you choices was the kind thing to do. I thought that after a life of being told what to do, you’d enjoy making your own decisions.”

/I do, but.../ Scope squeezed the star tightly, /please can I say something and you not get mad?/

Perceptor nodded, “anything you want.”

Scope broke eye contact, unconsciously dropping back into a submissive pose. /I am happy here, but I am also struggling. Everything is different to what I know, you don’t want me to be a disposable, so you treat me like a mech. You give me choices and freedom to do what I want, but you don’t understand that it hurts to have to keep fighting my own head. ‘Do you want your energon now or later’ is easy for you, you’re either hungry or not, for me I have to take a long mental walk, analyse the pros and cons of answering a certain way, decide that if I say ‘later’ will you’ll forget to give it to me at all. I try and do it fast, because you get mad when I don’t answer straight away, but the faster I try and do it, the slower my processor works. The only safe option I have left then is to retreat. Then you get mad because you think you said the wrong thing. I don’t know where I stand with you and I don’t like it, sometimes I just want an order so things are simple again./

“I am so sorry, Scope, I wish you told me this earlier though. I could have changed what I was doing. I never meant to hurt you, just to help you become more independent.”

/But that’s just it, you expect me to come and tell you when something’s wrong, but I can’t. It’s not that I don’t want to, I just can’t. I’m coded to obey and ask no questions, my discomfort is acceptable as long as I follow my code./

“But you’ve told me now?”

Scope nodded, /yes, but you asked, Sir. You said we could talk, you gave me permission to speak. You said you wanted to understand, so I’ve tried to explain it./

“Thank you,” Perceptor said softly, feeling terrible he’d spent the week wishing Scope away when all he’d needed to do was ask him what the problem was. He’d unknowingly thrown Scope into the deep end and watched him drown, then had the audacity to get angry at him because he couldn’t swim. “I am sorry, Scope. I didn’t know.” 

/It’s ok,/ Scope replied, feeling lighter now the world wasn’t on his shoulders, /I’m ok./

Perceptor took a moment to think through what Scope had said. He needed to make it easier on Scope and it went against his spark to order him around, he needed a happy middle ground. “Would it help you if we made a daily schedule for you to follow? So you don’t clean all day?”

/Yes please!/ Scope perked right up, that was exactly what he wanted. A strict routine to follow. Nice simple orders. /Please./

Perceptor pulled a blank datapad from storage and set it down on the table, “do you know how to tell the time yet?”

/Ummm, I know what the clock looks like when it means you’re coming home?/

Perceptor chuckled, “I’ll teach you after we work out your schedule.”

It took over an hour to work out a schedule to try. Eventually settling for an hour of cleaning once Perceptor had left for work, followed by an hour break to have his energon and watch something on the holoviewer, then two hours of reading - writing down any words he didn’t understand so Perceptor could explain them once he was home. Another break after that (with orders to take a walk and stretch his legs so he wouldn’t be sitting still all day), two hours of practicing reading and writing in Primal Vernacular, another hour break. Then an hour of Scope’s pick, either more study or more holovids, as long as the holovid was educational. After that he’d tidy up, have his energon and watch what he liked until Perceptor got home.

Scope seemed pleased with it, almost wishing Perceptor would go back to work so he could start it. 

“In a few days time we’ll reevaluate the routine, make some adjustments if you have any. Yes?”

/Thank you./

Perceptor smiled, making a mental note to ask Scope more often if he wanted to sit down and talk. Scope looked happier than he’d ever seen him and he had some answers that he’d wanted.

And maybe things really weren’t as bad as he first thought. Maybe Scope had never been the problem, maybe it was all on him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realise that Cybertronians would have another name for the Higgs Boson particle, but the name Higgs fit too well for the mech I had in mind. So I'm taking some leeway here and sweeping the problem under the rug.


	24. A Vial of Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's the return of Scope's treasure! It seems like so long ago that I introduced it that I'm hoping it hasn't been forgotten and this chapter makes sense.
> 
> This chapter is very dialogue heavy and I apologise if it feels like Scope is repeating the same thing. Tripwire and Ronnie are an open sore that he can't heal and they are on his mind a lot, he's angry with them and so he talks about them.

Over the next few weeks, Scope improved dramatically and Perceptor saw more and more of the independent, strong willed mech that hid under the nervous shell. There were still times Perceptor questioned his life’s choices and wondered if he’d made a mistake, but for the most part, Scope was good company.

Not coming home to an empty flat took some getting used to. Usually Scope was sat cross legged in the armchair, deeply engrossed in some trashy soap opera, the type far too popular with his colleagues at work. ‘That will kill your braincells’ he had said the first time he’d witnessed it, and what a mistake that had been, he’d spent the rest of the night explaining to Scope that it was just a figure of speech and wouldn’t actually make him stupid. Other days Scope would be deep into a science documentary too complicated for him to really understand. Those were the nights Perceptor would sit with him and explain what the scientists meant using the simplest terminology possible. Now that was a challenge.

When Scope heard Perceptor return home, he always paused the holoviewer and got up to warm a fresh cube, while Perceptor settled into one of the comfortable seats and pretended he wasn’t interested in whether Steelspark would find love with the unbearably cute Tassel. 

It was...nice and Perceptor enjoyed having company, it wasn’t until Scope started living with him that he realised how lonely he’d been. Not that he’d ever tell Ratchet he’d been right about it. 

What had started as a simple set of guidelines for Scope to follow soon became house law, followed to the millisecond without deviances. Scope thrived under the freedom of his rules, the rigid structure of his day, split into neat, tidy little packets of time that he could control. The apartment had never been cleaner and Scope worked hard on his lessons, learning faster than Perceptor had ever hoped possible. There had been a few adjustments at Scope’s request, more time for reading, less time for maths. The reasoning was sound, Scope wanted to focus more on the subject he needed most, math would come after. 

There had been surprises too. Sometime during the third week, Perceptor noticed a new trinket on his shelf. It wasn’t much, just a small bottle filled with paint chips and rust...not something he wanted to see, but knowing Scope felt comfortable enough to place one of his possessions on display brought a warm feeling to his chest. His curiosity was piqued, Scope was a desperately clean mech, obsessive even, and It seemed odd that a mech like that would be carrying around something so unclean. 

Over dinner that night - Perceptor’s dinner, Scope still refused to fuel in company - Perceptor had casually asked about the trinket. Scope seized up, frame taught as his optics darted to the shelf to check his prized possession hadn’t been thrown away like garbage. It hadn’t, it still sat nestled between a carved crystal and a framed certificate. 

/It was a gift,/ he explained, shifting nervously in his chair, /from the medic I saw before I left the slums. He said that I would always be home if I carried a part of home with me./

“Do you consider the slums your home?” Perceptor asked, trying to keep his tone light, make it seem like he wasn’t digging for information.

/No...yes...maybe. It’s complicated,/ he finally settled on, /I was created there and I spent the first part of my life there. It was all I knew for a long time and when Tripwire said we were leaving to go and live on the campus I was scared, I didn’t want to leave my home./ 

“It must have been very scary,” Perceptor agreed. 

Scope nodded, /it was. It was bad enough that I had to go at all, but before we left I had to go and be...I forget what Tripwire called it... neutralised? I think. It meant I had to go and not be a rifle any more, that I was made ‘safe’ to own. The medic was nice though, he knew I was upset and he tried to make it better. He said that home was something you could always take with you and that moving to a new place wasn’t so bad./ Scope’s fingers found an interesting mark in the table and he focused on tracing the scratch rather than look at Perceptor. /Mechs at the academy were always saying mean things about slum mechs, but the slum mechs were nice to me. I used to sleep under a big window, Tripwire hated it when it was opened, but sometimes I’d open it just a crack so I could hear the overcharged miners singing as they walked home. Their songs were funny. Tripwire really hated it there though, he thought he was above the slums and all the mechs who lived there...he thinks he’s above everyone./

Perceptor listened and smiled at the hint of Scope’s rebellious streak. “I’ve noticed that about him,” it wasn’t entirely unjustified, Tripwire was a smart mech, smarter than the rest of Perceptor’s students, but he knew it and his ego didn’t take criticism well. Not to mention it was beyond irritating to have a student who thought they were as smart as he was. One day he’d call Tripwire on his bullshit and have him teach a lesson.

The topic of Tripwire wasn’t one Perceptor had planned to broach this early in their relationship. Certainly it was one that needed to be dealt with, but the subject needed a delicate touch as it was always going to be a tender subject with Scope. Thankfully for Perceptor, Scope seemed willing to talk about it himself.

/I miss him,/ Scope said quietly. So quiet that Perceptor almost thought he imagined it. 

“Pardon?”

/I miss him,/ Scope repeated, barely louder than the first time, but enough to convince Perceptor he hadn’t imagined it.

Of all the things Perceptor had imagined Scope would say, missing Tripwire hadn’t made the list. He’d assumed that Scope was just glad to be away from that life and relieved to never see Tripwire again, looking back it seemed silly to think he wouldn’t have some other feelings about it.

/Is it bad to miss someone like that?/ Asked the rifle, unable to look at Perceptor, preferring to concentrate on the interesting scratch rather than risk seeing anger or disgust.

“I don’t think so, Scope. For a long time he was everything to you, even if he wasn’t a good mech, your world still revolved around him.” 

Scope’s shoulders slumped, /I just wanted to make him happy and I tried so hard to be what he wanted. I think about him a lot, I’ve been over everything we did together so many times and I can’t understand what I did wrong./

There was never a chance Tripwire would like Scope, Scope had been a possession, not a friend. “I don’t think anyone could make him happy, Scope, he’s too highly strung for that. I’m sure you tried your best and no one can ask more than that.” 

/I did,/ Scope replied, /but more than anything I wanted him to like me./

Perceptor could feel himself struggle for a foothold in the conversation. He was so out of his depth and comfort zone, Scope needed support and he wasn’t sure how to give it. These were conversations for Ratchet, who’d act gruff but would know exactly what to say to make things better. “Scope, Tripwire doesn’t like anyone.” 

/He likes Ronnie,/ Scope hissed back, the name spat out with distaste, like venom in the air. 

Perceptor pondered that. It was true that Chronicle had seemed to garner special treatment compared to how Tripwire acted towards Scope. In class Tripwire seemed almost gentle with him, no orders or physical pushing, just kind words and the odd ‘please’. It was like Chronicle made him a better mech and brought out the unheard of soft side.

“You know how you have your little vial of home?” Perceptor asked, gesturing to the shelf where it sat, “I think Ronnie is like that. I think Tripwire felt at ease with something to remind him of his family and his home. I don’t know what happened between Tripwire and his carers, but for Tripwire to go from living in the towers to renting a small apartment in the slums, it must have been something big. So my guess is that when he was given Ronnie, it must have felt nice for him to have a part of his home back. It might even have shown him that his carers weren’t angry at him any more. I think there’s a lot more to Ronnie and Tripwire’s relationship than he let you see.”

/It’s not fair!/ Scope shouted and slammed his fists on the table as he jumped up, sending his chair clattering backwards across the floor, finally bouncing off the wall. The sudden explosion of emotion and noise made Perceptor jump, quickly he reined in his reaction. /It’s not fair!/ Scope wailed again, his frame trembled with pent up distress and anger, hands falling to his sides where he balled them tightly. The waiver in his voice was just a hair away from cracking into upset, wordless static. /Why wasn’t I good enough!? Why did he abandon me? He didn’t know I’d end up with you, he abandoned me to be scrapped! That’s what they do you know? They melt us down to make new disposables. No one cares about them, no one cares that they have feelings and don’t want to die. You don’t know what it’s like to be a possession that can be thrown away without a second thought. I tried so hard for Tripwire and he abandoned me when I needed him most. Does he even know I’m not dead? Do you think he wonders what happened to me?/

“Scope, I…” What could he say? It was the grim reality for the disposable class, there was no denying it. They weren’t called disposable for nothing. New mechs were released every vorn, with better processors or some useless new upgrade, leading to a mass exchange of old mechs for new. The life expectancy of a disposable was sickenly short. “You have to stop doing this to yourself. You’re not to blame for his treatment of you, he is, please stop blaming yourself.”

/He’s not to blame,/ Scope countered angrily, /it’s always the disposables fault, never the owners. Catalyst attacked me, made me do things I didn’t want to do, but when I fought back to protect myself, I was the one who got punished. Real mechs can do what they want to us and no one cares./

“I care, Scope. What happened to you was wrong on many levels, but none of it was your fault. I don’t blame you for fighting back, in fact I admire you for it. You stood up for yourself and that is a brave thing to do when you know the odds are stacked against you.”

Scope didn’t answer, he had nothing to say. Perceptor didn’t have the answers he craved and it wasn’t like he could ask Tripwire. That wasn’t to say Perceptor had no answers he wanted. /Why did you save me?/

It was a question Perceptor had been asked before, but this time Scope needed an answer and Perceptor couldn’t brush him off with a semi truth. ‘Because I wanted to help you’ wouldn’t cut it.

“The first time I met you, do you remember it?” He waited until Scope nodded before continuing, “I’ve been sending the little mechs to my office for as long as I’ve been working at the Academy, they always seem to enjoy a break away to take some times for themselves. I’ve had hundreds of little mechs pass through my class, but never one like you. When I looked at you I could practically see your mind working as you analysed the situation, like I was a puzzle you needed to solve. I like the datasticks, don’t misunderstand me, but they don’t question what they are told, they just accept it. I used to watch you and it left me exhausted, everything was a puzzle to you, something you had to find an answer to. I never once saw you relax, at first I thought you were bored with the games set out for the datasticks, that they were too complicated or something. Then I saw you playing them and realised you’d been learning the rules by watching the others play, instead of just asking for the rules you taught yourself them. I couldn’t understand you though, I gave you everything you needed to enjoy a break away from Tripwire and you questioned it all, always looking for the catch. Now I know you, I understand why you thought you were being tricked, but at the time I just thought you were incapable of relaxing.”

“When I heard you were taken to the medbay, I felt very guilty about it. I hadn’t meant to hurt you, only to help you find new ways to learn. I knew you’d trust Ratchet once you saw he only wanted to help and I wondered if you would change when you saw there were no tricks or lies to focus on. You didn’t, you just turned your attention to something else, asked about the tools Ratchet used, wanted to know how you’d been fixed. Always with so many questions. You have the quickest mind I’ve ever seen in a disposable class mech, you practically ate up everything I could teach you and asked for more. I asked Ratchet if your behaviour was normal for rifles and he said no, he’d never met a mech like you either. That’s when I knew you were something really special.”

Scope listened, feeling like he had been part of an experiment he hadn’t agreed to. At the same time, Perceptor’s company had always been something he looked forward to, bringing the promise of something new and exciting to learn. Even the company alone was worth suffering through the probing and prodding of Ratchet’s students throughout the day. /But why did you agree to save me?/

Perceptor hummed as he tapped his fingers along the corner of his cube. “Ratchet commed me one night when I was out of the city and told me that you had been abandoned to his care. We’d already discussed you months before and I told him that I wanted a way to get you from Tripwire. We just couldn’t think of a way to do it. You are a mech who deserved so much more than the life you had and I wanted to be the mech to give it to you. I wanted to see what you could become if you were given the opportunity to learn whatever you wanted.”

Scope recoiled like the words were a bullet aimed directly at his spark. /Why though? Why make me smarter? In the end we both know what’s going to happen./

“And what do you think is going to happen?”

/I’m going to be recycled. You’ll abandon me just like he did when I’m not interesting or useful anymore. One day you’ll meet a mech who’s better than I am and you’ll replace me./

Perceptor paused. “That’s what all this is about? You think I’m going to abandon you or replace you with another mech?” He asked it softly but Scope still flinched, “I promise you, Scope, I’ll do everything in my power to protect you. You have a home here as long as you want it. I want you here, I like having you here.”

Scope nodded but Perceptor wasn’t blind, he could see his words were taken as a hollow promise. Scope believed him no more than he ever believed Tripwire.

“Do you want to sit back down?” Perceptor said gently, looking to change the topic to something less emotional, “we can go over your days work if you have any questions about it.”

Scope pulled the chair back up to the table and sat down without a word, defeated and exhausted at his outburst. He didn’t fear being recycled, that he was certain would happen one day, he feared abandonment and not being wanted.

They sat quietly, letting the conversation settle, at least that’s Perceptor thought they were doing. However, Scope drowned in the silence, trapped with the thoughts he’d done his best to repress, but were now open wounds that cut deep into his being. Desperate to break the silence, Scope spoke of things he never intended to divulge. 

/I used to spend a lot of time on my own, I already said I didn’t see Tripwire much,/ he said softly, /It was fine, I could look after myself and didn’t mind working, but sometimes it was lonely. It’s strange being somewhere where you may as well be invisible, lots of mechs liked to pretend I didn’t exist and the ones who did were rarely nice about ‘suffering’ my presence. So to get away from it, I used to imagine a new life for myself away from all the things and mechs that I didn’t like. Nothing bad ever happened in my fantasy, it was perfect. I used to imagine you’d come and take me away, fight Tripwire for my hand or something silly like that, then we’d go and make a nice life somewhere far away. I’d be a scientist and we’d go and visit all the organic worlds you told me about, I’d publish a research paper with my name on it and you’d be proud of me. I never thought it would actually happen, I just liked to imagine it could. I guess I just thought it would be different, that getting away from that life would mean I had no more problems, but I’m still...me and I don’t want to be me. I want to be someone who matters, not someone invisible./

Perceptor sat in stunned silence, cube halfway between the table and his lips, as if moving it in either direction would break the moment. Tomorrow the walls would be back up and Scope would pretend the conversation and confessions never happened, but right now the floodgates were open and Perceptor was going to take what he could. Anything that helped him understand his protege better was welcomed. He picked his next words carefully in an effort to keep Scope from clamming up on him. “You daydreamed about me?”

Scope nodded, /you were nice and it was easy to pretend you cared about me. No one else came to visit me when I was in the medbay, no one else sat and read to me or taught me anything worth knowing. No one ever showed me that much kindness, Ratchet was nice and I liked him, but it was his job to look after me so he doesn’t count. After I was released from the medbay, Tripwire didn’t trust sending me back to you. I don’t know what he thought, he never told me, but I’m sure he thought you were to blame for my processor break. Ronnie told me you asked him about me when I didn’t show up and was happy to know I was doing alright. It was so easy for me to think you cared, so I used it and built a life around it./

“But this isn’t the life you imagined?”

/No,/ Scope laughed but the sound was cold. /I wanted to be with you. I wanted you to take me away from that life and you did and I am grateful, even if I don’t sound it. I just...I never thought I would miss him./

Gently, Perceptor lowered his cube to the table and crossed his arms in front of it. Scope had opened up, it was only fair he shared something in return. Something deep to help them bond, a secret of sorts. 

“When I was a student I had a friend called Parsec. He was very handsome and very popular, wherever he went he had an army of friends. I didn’t have friends, I was the mech who sat at the front of the class and worked hard. I wasn’t interested in being a social mech, I just wanted to learn and be the best I could possibly be. Parsec befriended me and I couldn’t understand why he wanted to be my friend at all, we were different in every way, but I was overwhelmed that he thought I was worthy enough to join his club. He had a way of making you feel special, a few nice words here or a helping hand there. I fell for it and I lapped up the attention, we went for lunch together and hung out after class, he told me I was his best friend and that we’d be friends forever. He knew exactly what to say to wrap me around his little finger, he made me needy for him, made me want to win his approval. If he didn’t like something I liked, I stopped liking it, if he liked something I hated, I learnt to love it. Every time I thought I had his approval, he raised the bar to a place I couldn’t reach. Eventually I was letting him copy my homework, I did all the work when we had group projects and let him cheat off my tests. I wanted to be his friend so much that there was nothing I wouldn’t have done.” 

“Our final exam of the year was the big one, a failing grade meant being kicked from the class. I studied in every spare minute I had, the library became my home. On the day of the exam, I sat myself next to Parsec and let him copy my answers just as I always did. We passed with flying colours, the top two students in the class, I was beyond happy. Then Parsec stopped talking to me, he blocked my comm channel, ignored me in public and abandoned me to go back to his old friends. It hurt a lot and I made a lot of excuses for his behaviour. It took longer than I want to admit for me to realise how badly I’d been used. He only passed that year because I did all the work, he wanted an easy ride and I was the sucker who gave him it. What I’m trying to say, Scope, is that you can miss mechs who did bad things to you. I missed Parsec’s friendship even after everything he did, I have some good memories of him. Sometimes it’s hard to really hate someone, even though you want to, you still remember that they also made you happy. I don’t think you’re a bad mech because you miss Tripwire, you’re allowed to have feelings, even when they’re feelings you don’t really want to have. Do you understand what I’m trying to say?”

Scope cocked his head to the side, regarding Perceptor with a strange look. He took a moment to let the story sink in and then tutted, /I don’t believe you didn’t have any friends. Even I have friends and I don’t like anyone./

Perceptor chuckled, the deep tone quickly dissolving into full blown laughter. Trust Scope to miss the point...or more likely intentionally deflecting from the more uncomfortable comparison. At least the tension lifted. “It’s hard to believe I know, what with me being such a social mech these days.” 

Scope sniggered. The sound caught Perceptor off guard, it was the closest he’d been to hearing or seeing Scope venture towards a positive emotion. /Ratchet and Wheeljack like you./

“They’re outliers, we don’t count them.” 

/Why not?/

“Wheeljack has been my friend for a very, very long time and we’ve done some stupid things together. Ratchet was a poor bystander and got dragged into our friendship when he started dating Jack, he didn’t have a choice in the matter.”

/They still count./

“Alright, I’ll count them if you say so,” he said with a smile.

/The disposables too, they all like you. They think you’re the best thing in the universe./

“I don’t know about that.” 

Scope scoffed, /the first time I was sent to your office, all they did was tell me how amazing you were and how glad they were that you existed. Tripwire too, our whole trip from the slums to the city was him talking about how amazing you were and how lucky you were to teach him./

Perceptor laughed, “lucky to teach him? I am not sure I agree with that statement.”

/Well you kind of are./

Perceptor was still chuckling, amused by the claim. “Am I? How do you figure that.”

/Because he only came to Iacon to be your student and If you wasn’t his teacher then we never would have met. We would probably still be in the slums./

“I never thought of it like that. In that case, you’re right, I am lucky to teach him.” 

Scope cocked his head in what Perceptor had come to understand was a smile.

Perceptor finished his cube and looked to Scope, it seemed like a perfectly good time to see where Scope stood on their relationship. “So we’ve decided that I have friends. What about us? Are we friends?” 

Just like Perceptor had wanted to avoid, Scope clammed up tight, good mood gone in a flash. One wrong question and Scope slammed the walls up so fast Perceptor could barely catch his breath. /No. You’re my owner./

“No, I’m not. You own yourself, for the sake of the outside world we’re just pretending I do. You’re a free mech, Scope. I know it doesn’t feel like it now, but one day it will.”

/Please, don’t say that,/ Scope almost begged, his voice crackled with static, /I don’t like it. It makes my spark hurt./

Perceptor frowned, worried by the claim, “how so?”

Scope wriggled in his seat, looking everywhere but at Perceptor, eventually settling back on the scratch that was getting deeper with every movement of his chipped fingers. /I have to have an owner, I don’t want to be alone./

It suddenly struck Perceptor at how his words sounded. Walking on eggshells didn’t come close to describing the delicate touch required to deal with Scope, where one wrong word could destroy weeks of hard work. “I’m not going to abandon you, I promised you that already. I’ll be whatever you need me to be, but I’d also like us to be friends. Wouldn’t you like that too?”

Scope nodded. Barely, but it was an agreement all the same. /I don’t want to hate you like I did with Tripwire./

Perceptor chuckled, “well that’s a start. I can work with that.” He finished his now cold cube in a few large gulps, grimacing at the taste. He really needed to stop drinking them cold. “You know, about the rest of your fantasy, there’s no reason you couldn’t be a good - or even great - scientist if you put the work in.” 

/Really?/ Scope asked hopefully, /I could go and visit other planets with you?/

Perceptor nodded, “of course. The next time I go off world, you can come with me and be my assistant.”

Scope lit up at the promise, /I’d like that a lot!/

“You need to learn your maths first though,” teased Perceptor, “every good scientist has a good knowledge of mathematics.” 

/I don’t mind working hard! Do you think I could write a paper one day?/

“I don’t see why not,” Perceptor smiled. He thought about telling Scope that mechs who made great discoveries could be given alt-mode exemptions by the senate, but he thought better of it. Alt-mode exemptions were rare and he didn’t want Scope to rely on something that would statistically never happen. 

Scope seemed elated by the idea he could become a scientist and that was enough. 

/I’m going to work really hard and be the first rifle scientist. Then one day the other disposables will be able to look at me and they’ll know they can be something great as well./

“I don’t doubt you for a second. You can be the beacon of your class,” Perceptor smiled, “now, shall we go over your day’s work and correct your mistakes?”

/Yes, Sir!/ Scope said as he jumped up to grab his datapads from the shelf. No matter how hard he had to work, he was going to stand for his kind and show the world they weren’t just mindless slaves.

That night, Scope didn’t spend sleepless hours fretting over his relationship with Tripwire, he dreamed of being a scientist and teaching his own class of students, of opening a science journal and seeing his name attached to a research paper. He dreamed of being someone worth knowing.

\------------

A few days later, after Perceptor had left for work and Scope was partway through his morning clean, he spotted his vial on the shelf. He almost missed it by how different it looked, a bright red ribbon was now tied around the neck in a bow, so large that it almost completely obscured the paint chips inside. Carefully, he picked it up and ran his fingers over the silky material. It was almost the same colour as Perceptor’s paint.

Scope got the message loud and clear. 

This is your home.


	25. Celebrations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So chapter 25 is a massive milestone for me in writing and I wanted to celebrate it with something nice. So have a really happy chapter!

The theme song of _The Bold and the Beautiful_ greeted Perceptor when he entered the apartment, from the door he could just make out the end credits rolling over the flashy smile of one of the lead characters. A quick check of his internal clock told him he was hours late and had - thankfully, he told himself - missed all of the trashy soaps Scope had become addicted to. 

Scope's head appeared over the back of the sofa and then disappeared again as the rifle untangled himself from the warm, comfortable nest of blankets he'd buried himself in. /You’re very late, is everything ok?/ He asked as he trotted into the kitchen to fix Perceptor's cube as he always did.

Perceptor smiled, exhausted but triumphant as he held out a datapad for Scope. “Things are better than ok. Here, I have something exciting for you.” 

Scope cocked his head and took the datapad, /what is it?/ In his spark he hoped it was the next instalment of his book series, but the datapad was yellow, not blue like the others he owned.

“Read it and you can tell me.”

The screen flickered to life as Scope touched it, the bright screen reflecting on his chipped paint. There were big words, bigger than any he’d tackled before but he broke them down into manageable pieces just like he'd been taught and sounded them out slowly. /...Cert..tif...ic..ate of rest..to...ra...toin./ That didn't sound right and he tried again, over and over until he had it, /a certificate of restoration?/

Perceptor smiled, “that’s right. Keep going.”

Scope read it slowly, aiming for accuracy over speed. Perceptor made no complaints and grabbed a cube from storage, sipping it cold while he listened. /Perceptor is hereby granted permission for the restoration of rifle model 532, batch 1472, identification number 113-1472. Rifle designation ‘Scope’./ Scope cocked his head, the words made sense on their own but together he couldn't grasp the importance of the document, he kept reading and hoped he wasn’t missing something huge. /Designation Scope is awarded to Perceptor as acting bodyguard following his appeal for protection rights. Permissions are granted to restore rifle 113-1472 to working order. Permit to carry has been issued separately as requested. Shooting permit to follow./ 

The certificate continued, listing off rules and clauses, Perceptor stopped Scope before he read the boring technicalities out loud. “Do you understand what this means?”

Scope shook his head, the meaning had been lost in his stilted speech, he started at the beginning and read it again. The second time around ‘permissions are granted to restore rifle to working order’ clicked and he almost dropped the datapad in his excitement. /It means I get to be a rifle again!/

Perceptor laughed, “yes it does. Not only that, I now have a permit to carry, which means when you are back to working order, you can come with me wherever I want to take you, including the Academy if you want to come.” On top of that it meant he could legally own Scope as a rifle, if he'd lost his case then Scope would have had no choice but to remain how he was.

It had been a long journey on Perceptor’s part, one he’d kept quiet from Scope, unwilling to risk getting Scope's hopes up only to see them dashed. There had been hours of interviews, background checks and more forms to fill our than he ever wanted to see again. His application to keep a bodyguard had needed to be approved by three different departments, each requiring an interview to ensure his reasoning was valid. Expected as it was - Scope was a deadly weapon after all - it was seven weeks of stress that Perceptor could now gladly put behind him. His final meeting had been only a few hours ago, all he needed to do was collect the certificate and swear an oath that Scope wouldn’t be used in any way the Senate would disapprove of. Two and a half hours of waiting for a meeting that took barely five minutes. 

“So now you’re a legal citizen again, registered with all the right places and certified with all the correct authorities. Which means that no one can touch you without my consent.” It was more than Scope had ever had before, not that he’d know that. On his journey to register Scope, Perceptor had found that Tripwire had done only the bare minimum required of him and had absolutely nothing in place to protect Scope should he have been lost or stolen. Disposables got lost, it was inevitable in large crowds and busy cities, but now if Scope ever did, he would be returned to Perceptor and not sent to a holding facility with an uncertain future. 

Scope was elated, bouncing on his toes as he clutched the datapad to his chest like he feared it would disappear if he didn’t keep his death grip on it. /I don’t know what to do, I am so happy! Thank you so much!/

“We should celebrate,” suggested Perceptor, “would you like to go and buy some of your parts? You’ve saved up enough credits to start collecting them.”

/Can we? I would love to do that!/ 

Scope’s spark was so light in his chest that his frame felt like it was made of air. The moment didn't seem real to him, the shock wouldn’t wear off for days, yet in his hands was the proof this wasn't a dream. ‘Permission of restoration’ Scope read again, and then again for good measure. He was so happy he felt like his spark was about to explode from his chest. /Thank you, thank you, thank you!/

Perceptor finished his cube is a few quick gulps and tossed the empty carton in the trash. He was tired after the long day of teaching and bureaucracy, honestly he'd rather have sat down to rest, but the moment needed celebrating and Scope was so happy on the bond that he found he didn’t mind the long trip. “You’re very welcome, Scope. Now, go and get the list Ratchet gave you and we’ll head off.”

Scope practically bounced as he ran from the kitchen and grabbed the list from his room. Ratchet had been kind enough to make a detailed list of everything he needed, right down to the screws and washers. It wasn’t a short list, but Perceptor assured him that a lot of the smaller pieces would be very cheap. 

It was finally happening! The future he’d feared would never come was now well within his grasp.

\----------

They took a transport out to the edge of the city. That alone was an exciting adventure for Scope who hadn’t been on one since Tripwire brought him to the city. Travelling with Perceptor was enjoyable and free of stress, giving him a chance to sit back and enjoy the ride.

Scope sat by the widow with his face almost pressed to the glass, fidgeting with nervous excitement as he watched the buildings pass by in a blur of dull colour. High rent housing soon gave way to cheaper apartments and noisy clubs, the standard of living dropping visibly the further they got from the city centre. It was like watching a timeline of poverty. Furthest out were the sprawling factory complexes and warehouses, a world away from the bright lights and expensive living of Iacon city, distant enough for mechs with money to forget they existed at all. 

They may as well have been in the transport for an eternity, Scope’s impatience was turning minutes into hours. In reality the entire trip was less than twenty minutes. Had the carriage been emptier, he would have spoke quietly to Perceptor as a way to pass the time, but with so many mechs around he felt safer showing silent obedience. Perceptor would have interesting facts about what they were passing, he had interesting facts about everything.

Their stop was the last on the transport’s route and the carriage emptied out at the Iacon slums. Although it was known as the Slums, it was a far nicer area than where Scope had first lived. Unlike his slums - in whatever city they were - Iacon wasn’t a mining city and the streets were blissfully clean of the fine dust Scope had grown to loathe. Years after he left he swore he was still washing it out of his frame. There was no denying that they were in a lower class area, but the streets were clean and the low rent housing was relatively well kept, almost quaint with the patchwork of repairs. 

Scope kept close to Perceptor, expecting the same snide comments and dirty looks he received at Crystal Grove, there were none and to his pleasant surprise the mechs were friendly, a small group even smiled at him and said hello as they passed by. It was enough for Scope to instantly relax. A lot of the mechs were in the same state of disrepair that he was, with missing armour and rough paint, mismatched parts and interesting repairs. it was easy for Scope to feel at home among them. 

The area was a fascinating microcosm of Iacon, with what looked like a high rent area, then towards the factories a lower one. Once they had passed through the residential zone with its narrow, cramped streets and high rise apartments the slums opened up to vast warehouses and factories. The closer they got to the factories, the more the smoke pouring from the chimneys and the smell of burning chemicals burned their intakes. In a way it was worse than the dust, at least that could be washed away after a days work, but there would be no escape from the smell. It was so caustic and unpleasant, Scope could feel it burning his fans. 

They came out onto a wide broadway of shops and bars, passing inviting looking cafes selling sweet energon by the cup. Aside from the workers, the sheer amount of disposable class mechs running around unsupervised was staggering. Scope had never seen so many. Everywhere he looked he saw more, all rushing around holding datapads and packages. They darted around like miniature racers, weaving between the larger mechs to save a few precious seconds on their journey. In the factory forecourts they ticked off shipments and checked deliveries, even gave orders to forklifts and trucks. Real mech jobs done by disposables, Scope could barely believe it. 

Perceptor was content to watch Scope’s amazement. This was a place he’d wanted to bring Scope for a while, if only to show him he wasn’t alone in wanting freedom. “They’re all classified as runners,” Perceptor told him, “no matter what class they were before, they’re all the same now. They have a lot of responsibility here.”

And there were plenty of classes to see. Scope knew a few of the disposables by frame, rifles and datasticks mostly, others were a mystery and the more he looked at them the less sense they made. One thing they all had in common was how happy they looked, laughing and teasing each other as they worked, placing bets on who could deliver their packages the fastest and who would be slowest. One small mech of unidentifiable altmode stood next to his long legged rifle partners and complained loudly that it wasn’t fair, of course he was slower, his legs were shorter. 

/It’s amazing, they look so happy./

“Well they’re well cared for for a start,” said Perceptor, “it’s not like the city down here, disposables aren’t disposable, they’re a valued part of society.” 

One day he’d tell Scope that most of the disposables here had been rescued from medbays and reclamation yards by a secret organisation known only as the USN. An anonymous network of mechs who believed all sparks were equal, a group who fought discrimination from the shadows and saved everyone they could. A group that brought up the unwanted and find them a place in the world where they mattered. The factory owners were happy to work with the USN, giving good, caring homes to the disposables and using them as runners for their businesses. It wasn’t as easy life, but the disposables were fiercely loyal to their new carers for the freedom they were given. They formed family units and took bondmates, created an entire culture of their own, lived as free mechs and were paid a real salary for their hard work. It was more than any could have hoped for when they were abandoned by their original owners. But that was a conversation for another day, a day in the distant future, when Scope could be trusted to keep the secret.

Past the small shops and bars Perceptor finally found what he’d had been looking for, it was a wide single story building surrounded by a fenced off area with targets at the far end. Ratchet had suggested the combined shooting range and parts shop as a place that made quality parts instead of the over engineered pieces available closer to home. The shop did a good trade with the military base close by, repairing their rifles and guns as well as offering training courses for new upgrades. Quality was a must when it came to the military.

There were more rifles inside the shop than Scope had never seen in his life, the shooting range he visited with Tripwire was close, but had been empty in comparison. Most were military rifles, painted the bland dark grey of army equipment, unique only in the different stripes of colour along their barrels and arms. The rest were privately owned, some in garish colours or painted to match their owners. Scope didn’t feel as self conscious around the others as he thought he would, there were plenty of rifles missing parts or stripped down to bare armour in the same way he was. There was one rifle missing his entire arm, yet he still found humour in his problem and joked about needing a hand.

The shop was busy enough to have a long snaking queue, several mechs manned the counters, but the line didn’t move quickly. Perceptor and Scope settled in for a long wait. In front of them were twin pistols and their owner, they were half the size of Scope with smaller barrels and stockier frames, the most interesting part to Scope was that they both had faces. Hammer and Slide introduced themselves and grinned with their expressive little mouths. Scope was fascinated.

/You can get real faces for disposables?/ He asked Perceptor.

Perceptor nodded, dropping into Primal Vernacular so their conversation would remain private, /they’re custom made and probably cost a small fortune. It’s possible to get anything if you’re willing to pay a lot of credits./

/But they have proper mouths, does that mean they drink their energon like real mechs?/

/I would assume so, yes./

That settled it, Scope wanted a face almost as much as he wanted his rifle parts. After his upgrades, Scope told himself, he’d start saving for a face with a mouth. His own bare metal, featureless mask couldn’t be called a face in any way except positioning. Anything would be better than the nothing he had, but to drink energon like a real mech instead of injecting like a disposable, that was worth any price to him.

/Do you think Ratchet would know how much they cost?/

/I’m not sure,/ Perceptor replied, /that’s a very niche market. I’ll ask him if you like./ Even if Ratchet did know, Perceptor was certain Scope wouldn’t like the answer.

/Thank you./ Any answer would give him an idea of how much to start saving.

The twins continued to try and make friends and Scope took a liking to them, much to Perceptor’s surprise. Hammer was the bolder twin and fired off questions like bullets, Slide was more content to stand back and listen. Scope introduced himself and answered a few of their questions, both twins listened with rapt attention and begged him to keep talking.

“That’s the other language isn’t it? The one the smart mechs use? Flash says it’s for nerds,” Hammer said. 

Scope snorted, he wasn’t smart and he certainly wasn’t a nerd, Perceptor on the other hand was probably both. 

Flash pinched his nose and huffed at being outed for his opinions on Primal Vernacular. He turned and pulled his pistols back with an apologetic look to Perceptor, “I am sorry about them, they like to ask a lot of questions and don’t know when to stop.”

“It’s fine,” Perceptor replied politely, “Scope seems to be enjoying himself.”

Hammer took that to mean he could continue and looked to Scope, “can you teach me to say ‘hello, my name is Hammer’?”

For a brief moment, Scope considered teaching them something rude, but he shook that off and enjoyed his moment to play teacher. He said it once, then again a second time, but slower. He spent the next five minutes patiently correcting Hammer’s abuse of his language. Hammer didn’t get it perfect, but it was close enough for Scope to let him have it. Then he did the same for Slide, who had finally worked up the courage to join in the conversation.

“How comes you understand me but you can’t talk?” Asked Hammer. 

/I have a.../ he stopped and looked to Perceptor to explain, it didn’t matter what he said, they wouldn’t understand.

“Scope has a translator fitted into his audials that automatically translates neocybex into the language he understands. So while he understands you, he can’t reply back in neocybex because he’s never heard what it sounds like.”

Hammer’s mouth made a comical little O shape, “but what if he wants to talk to someone and you aren’t there to tell them what he means?”

“Scope is an excellent writer, if needs must he could always write them a message.” 

Scope would have grinned if he had a nice little mouth to do so. Such a compliment made him proud to have worked so hard. 

Hammer had a hundred more questions, but Flash called him away to an empty counter. “Oh, well it was nice meeting you and thanks for the lesson!”

/Bye,/ said Scope as they ran off to join Flash.

“That was nice of you,” Perceptor said when Hammer had gone, “you taught him very well.”

/Thank you,/ Scope preened.

“It’s our turn next, do you have your list ready?”

Scope pulled it from his subspace and handed it to Perceptor. 

“Would you like to get the expensive parts first or all the little bits?”

Scope hummed as he considered. He’d already worked out that with the money he’d saved he could buy all the smaller pieces plus his barrel mount or his barrel mount and trigger mechanism. Two big pieces or one big piece and lots of unimpressive pieces? The big pieces would be more exciting, but owning more pieces would look like he’d spent more credits.

/The little bits and my barrel mount please,/ he finally decided, more was better.

They were served by an old mech who looked like he’d once been military. He walked with a nasty limp and lent on the counter whenever he could. “Welcome to Trigger Happy, my designation is Pinpoint, what can I do for you today?”

“I’m rebuilding my rifle and I’d like to get started on buying some parts,” Perceptor said, pushing the list over to the other side of the counter. 

“We can certainly get you started, but before that, do you have your ownership papers? We have to check all firearms are registered before we can sell any parts.”

“I do.” Perceptor handed over the datapad he’d shown Scope earlier and waited while the sales mech checked they weren’t fake. 

“These papers are so fresh the pad’s still warm from the download,” Pinpoint teased and handed the pad back, “you’re lucky, it usually takes a few days to show up in the system, you must have caught them on upload day or something.” 

Scope vented a deep, shaky breath, the thought of being turned away empty handed over a technicality made his spark run cold. 

“So you’re going for a full upgrade?” Pinpoint asked, “are you looking to buy everything today?”

Perceptor shook his head, “just the small parts and the barrel mount.”

Pinpoint leaned heavily on the counter and winced when his hip made a loud cracking sound. His eyes fell on Scope and then on the list, “I’m not saying your rifle is old, but a lot of the parts you’ve got listed here are outdated and if you’re specifically looking for those then you’re going to have to go second hand, which is something we don’t deal in.”

Perceptor understood the meaning behind the words and he was glad to know Ratchet had suggested a place that wasn’t dealing in hack parts taken from unwilling mechs. “I don’t want that, what do you suggest?” 

“We sell packs, or rather we make upgrade packs. If you’re doing a full upgrade then it would work out cheaper to buy the packs than each part separate. They come with everything you need to attach the part and integrate it seamlessly into his operating systems.” Pinpoint handed over a catalogue, “we sell lots of different upgrade packs, do you want to take a look before deciding if you still want to do it this way?” 

Perceptor took the datapad and handed it to Scope, “thank you, I’ll have a look and let you know.” He stepped away away from the counter with Scope in tow and they made their way to a quiet corner where they could sit down and discuss Scope’s options. 

/Do you really think it will be cheaper?/ Scope asked hopefully as they sat down on one of the benches, the idea that he might be able to afford multiple packs wasn’t lost on him. 

“I’m not sure, you can put your maths to the test and tell me.”

Scope instantly regretted not pouring more time into his maths work. 

Perceptor looked at Ratchet’s list and wrote down all the packs they would need to buy, eight in total. “It’s your frame Scope, you pick the upgrades you want.” 

/I can do that?/ Scope sounded skeptical, /what if I’m wrong?/

Perceptor chuckled, “there’s no right or wrong really, design your own frame. Once you’re done we’ll ask Pinpoint if the upgrades will work well together, if not then we’ll ask him for suggestions. Does that sound ok?”

Scope nodded and started with the venting systems, thumbing through the datapad until he reached the section he wanted. There was a selection to choose from, but Scope knew the kind he wanted, a full back piece with the vents over his shoulders and the integrated barrel mount. It wasn’t the most practical but it was his favourite. It also cut down the number of packs he needed to buy. 

/This one,/ he said, pointing to the small picture on the screen, /this one is my favourite./ 

Perceptor took note of the serial number and price before they moved on to the next pack. 

“I already said I would buy your barrel for you, so do that last. Just find the parts you’re buying so you can add up the total and tell me if it’s cheaper or not.” 

Scope hummed, /yes sir./

Piece by piece they went through each of the parts. Perceptor sat quietly while Scope studied the stats of each piece, optimising himself for accuracy over firepower. Perceptor couldn’t grasp why Scope could easily do the difficult sums of distance and accuracy, but hadn’t yet mastered simple maths. On an empty datapad, Scope had drawn accurate little graphs to map angles and distance, a level of maths far above what he should have been capable of. 

“This is easy for you isn’t it?” Perceptor asked, already planning lessons that would play to Scope’s strengths.

Scope nodded, /I understand these numbers and how they all work together. I also know that I won’t be able to handle anything too taxing on my processor, so I’m limited to low performance pieces./ He suddenly realised what he said and froze, /I’ll still be a good rifle, I promise! High performance is for sport rifles anyway./

Perceptor chuckled, “I wasn’t worried, Scope. I’m sure you know what you’re doing and as long as you’re happy with your choice then so am I.”

That settled Scope and he went back to work. 

When everything was selected he looked over his choices. His setup sacrificed some of the accuracy he wanted for something more beginner friendly, for Perceptor’s sake. He wanted Perceptor to enjoy shooting him, and selfishly thought that Perceptor’s enjoyment would mean more time at the range for him. 

“Ok that’s everything. Add all of these totals up and tell me if it’s cheaper,” Perceptor said as he handed his datapad over.

Seeing Scope struggle with a simple addition problem after doing such complicated calculations was baffling to Perceptor. It made no sense no matter how he tried to see it. After five minutes of working in the most backwards way possible, Scope had an answer, “it is cheaper by thirty three credits.” Not a lot cheaper but it was worth it.

“Well done.” Perceptor was still trying to work out how Scope had managed to get the right answer, he was sure he’d seen some division going on. “Pick out your barrel and we’ll get it today if they have it.” 

/Really!?/ Scope buzzed with excitement, he’d expected to get it last but it was the piece he wanted most. 

Perceptor nodded, “you’ve worked hard for it. This doesn’t mean you can slack off, I still expect you to work hard.” 

/I would never slack off!/ Even if Perceptor wasn’t setting his work, Scope would still find a way to learn, it was the one thing he really enjoyed - except for shooting.

Picking a barrel was the most difficult decision of Scope’s life. It was the piece that would make him and define him as a rifle, it had to be perfect. He thumbed through all the choices, striking several from the list immediately for being too long or short for his liking. Next went the heavy ones so he could keep himself light enough for Perceptor to comfortably wield. 

That left three. /Which one do you like best?/ He asked Perceptor, holding the datapad out for him to see. 

There wasn’t much difference between them except for the placement of biolights. “This one’s biolights look like buttons, I imagine someone will poke them and you won’t like that.” 

Scope hadn’t thought of that and he didn’t like the sound of it at all. It was immediately removed from the list. 

Between the remaining two, Perceptor picked the more simple design, sleek with a row of three rectangular biolights at the top. 

/I like that one too./ It would look good with the rest of his frame. Smart and not overly flashy like some of the overcomplicated rifles walking around the shop. That wasn’t his style. 

“Which pack do you want to get today? Still your barrel mount?”

Scope shook his head, /I’d like to get my venting system, the barrel mount comes attached to that./ He couldn’t wait to see how it would look with the barrel. /I can afford my Scope too can’t I?/

“You tell me.”

Scope didn’t huff, that would be ungrateful, but he wasn’t pleased with having to do more maths. Stylus in hand, he worked out his finances. /I can’t, I am twelve credits short,/ he said miserably.

Perceptor thought for a moment, “that’s not much, if you want to get it now then I’ll deduct twelve credits from your next pay, how about that?”

/You would let me do that?/

“If that’s what you want. It’s going to be a while until I have enough time to bring you back here again, so I’d rather you get the pieces you wanted than feel like you hadn’t worked hard enough.”

/You’re the best, Sir!/ 

Perceptor shook his head, a faint smile captured at the corner of his mouth. “Come on, it’s getting late and we have to get home yet.” Usually he’d be in bed by now or at least showered and getting ready for it.

Other mechs seemed to have had the same idea because the shop was nearly empty when they returned to Pinpoint. 

“Have you come to a decision?” Pinpoint asked as they approached.

“Yes, thank you, your packs were a good suggestion for us and you’re right it does work out slightly cheaper.” Perceptor handed back the catalogue and a list of their choices, “I’d just like to get the scope, vents and barrel if you have them in stock.”

Pinpoint eyed the list and, “wow you’re really mix and matching parts. Can’t say I’ve ever seen anyone build a rifle with such an assortment, should make for a nice shot though. I just have one suggestion if I may?” 

“Please, I was hoping you could tell me if my choices would work well together.”

“Yeah, I mean if it works how I think it will then you’ll have a pretty nice mid range weapon. Not too much recoil either which is always a plus in my book. The only problem you have is that the barrel and ammo you’re choosing aren’t the best mix, this type of barrel is better suited for a larger caliber round.” He flicked through the menu on the datapad until he found what he was looking for, “if you want precision, this is a better choice.” 

Scope reached for the datapad, the barrel was slimmer and longer than what he’d picked, it was actually one of the ones he’d immediately dismissed as too long. /He’s right, but It will be difficult for you to use if you’ve never fired a rifle before. It requires a lot more skill on your part./

Perceptor chuckled and switched to Scope’s language to keep Pinpoint out of their conversation, /did you make me a beginner rifle? Don’t worry about me, I said you could teach me and I’m sure I’ll be a terrible student for a while. No matter what you choose I’m probably going to miss a lot of targets. Are you worried about this?/

/Yes./ Scope wasn’t about to lie, his new frame was a lot more precise than it had been with Tripwire and all things considered, Tripwire had been a good shot. /I don’t want you to think you’re a bad shot and never come shooting again. I want you to enjoy it like I do./

/No one is a master at anything on the first try. Scope, pick the frame you want and I will learn around you. Don’t settle for a frame you think I want./

/You won’t get mad if you miss a lot of targets?/

/I promise./ 

/Ok./ Scope agreed to the barrel change and gave the datapad back to Pinpoint.

“We’ll take your suggestion,” Perceptor told him.

“Great, I’ll be right back with your purchases.” Pinpoint limped off into a back room marked ‘employees only’. 

/How much do I have to pay Ratchet to fix me?/ Scope asked. His head was full of numbers as he tried to work out how long it would be until he could afford everything, a task made harder when he couldn’t write the sums down. 

“You don’t have to pay him, he’s already said he will do it when he has time. I’m afraid it’s dependent on his schedule. You could get him something nice as a thank you though.” 

/Really? That’s nice of him. What sort of thing should I get him?/ 

“I’m not sure, I’ll ask Wheeljack for you. Maybe he knows if there’s something Ratchet wants and then you could surprise him with it.” 

/I’d like that, he’s really nice to me./

Perceptor smiled, “he is. You’d like Wheeljack too if you spent some time with him, he’s always up to things I’m sure you’d find interesting.”

Scope was about to ask what kind of things when Hammer came out carrying three large boxes of assorted size. 

“Here you go, everything you need is included, all the attachments and software. If by chance something is missing then you have a month to bring it back with the receipt and we’ll correct our mistake.” 

Scope bounced on his heels, his new parts were on the table. He was so close to being himself again that he could barely stand it. Then the horror hit and Scope froze, none of the parts were painted. /Why are they bare metal? I don’t want to be naked./

/All upgrades are sold unpainted, that way they can be painted to match the mech they’re going on,/ Perceptor explained, /otherwise mechs would be made of lots of different coloured parts and that would look terrible./

/Oh...so I have to get painted?/

Perceptor nodded and paid the bill with a credit card. /You could do with a repaint anyway. You’re still wearing factory paint and that isn’t made to last, it’s cheap paint, that’s why you are chip and scratch so easily. Good paint lasts a long time.”

It was something Scope hadn’t even considered, he just assumed all brought parts would be the same dull purple he was created with. Being painted was just another thing to look forward to! It meant meant he could pick any colour he wanted to be. Maybe black and silver, some of the rifles he’d seen earlier had been painted with that combination and they had looked sleek and handsome. Or maybe he could go red and black to match Perceptor, although that was a bit bright for Scope’s tastes. 

As they left the shop, purchases safely tucked away in Perceptor’s subspace, and made the walk back to the transport terminal, one thought struck Scope with such force it made his spark ache. He was a custom rifle now! Not just another off the shelf buy, oh no, he was just as custom as the handsome disposables paraded around Crystal Grove.

Better than that, he was Perceptor’s custom mech. Finally he would be a mech Perceptor wouldn’t be ashamed to be seen with. Not that Perceptor had ever showed it if he did feel that way.

Not long now, he’d waited years to be a rifle again and he could wait a little longer, even if he did think the wait was going to kill him. 

Finally he’d look like the mech he always felt like inside.


	26. Good Things Come to Those Who Wait

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Break out the Champagne, Scope's big day is finally here!
> 
> I realise that that title of this chapter is rather apt for how long it's been between updates. Sorry for the wait!

When Scope had imagined his upgrade day, it was perfect, he’d walk in in the morning with Perceptor to a pristine medbay, greet Ratchet who would have all the upgrades unboxed and ready to fit. His operation would last an hour and he’d wake up looking amazing, straight away Perceptor would take him to the shooting range and tell him he was the best rifle ever. Maybe they’d get some nice energon afterwards and come home to watch a documentary Perceptor could explain. 

Scope had weeks to fantasise about how perfect it would be. His version of events had him standing on the berth once he woke up, a covered mirror in front of him ready for the big reveal. Ratchet would pull the cloth away and two spotlights would blast Scope with light as dramatic music played in the background. There Scope would stand with his hands on his hips, his reflection that of a god. In Scope’s mind it had to be dramatic, just like in the soaps he was so fond of. There would also probably be fireworks.

In reality things were a lot different. He didn’t walk in to immediately get his upgrades, nor did he immediately get sedated for it. No, Scope spent the first few hours sitting through boring, repetitive tests that hadn’t been a part of his plan. 

And as far as Scope was concerned, the barrage of tests were a waste of valuable upgrade time. They weren’t dramatic or interesting, if he was part of the cast in _The Bold and The Beautiful_ then he wouldn’t be getting any screen time and that just wasn’t right. 

The worst part of it for Scope was having done all the tests before and knowing what happened next and how long they would take. It wasn’t as if these test results would be any different from the past ones that Ratchet kept carefully documented in his patient file, the graphs and charts almost all identical. Ratchet disagreed and diligently compared the past and present results, looking for any dangerous anomalies. 

Scope huffed at the time consuming task. Yes his processor was delicate, but everyone and their pet turbofox knew that and no one knew that better than Ratchet. Not for the first time that morning, Ratchet explained that the careful repairs he’d made only hid the real problems, like a cast on a broken strut. For the sake of Scope’s health keeping an eye on the repairs was a necessity, even if Scope did continue to complain about it. 

Two hours into the tests and Scope had predicted every part correctly so far. They were an annoyance, the constant stream of fast data dulled his processor as it worked to analyse the mass of information being routed through it. That happened without Scope needed to do anything, all he needed to do was sit quietly and let the programs run. 

Scope was bored. Mind-numbing bored. So bored that if he had to choose between Ratchet’s tests or doing handwriting exercises in Neocybex - a task he loathed - he’d gladly take the latter option. 

The night before, Perceptor had told Scope they would be leaving early. Scope had assumed it was because Ratchet wanted to get the surgery done in the morning so they could all be done by the afternoon. He didn’t think he was going to spend hours waiting impatiently for Ratchet to come to the conclusion he’d known all along. The hyperactive energy he’d felt on the journey had long since worn off, the excitement barely a flicker. The upgrades he’d worked so hard to earn were still boxed on the bed behind Ratchet, so close but so far.

“Will you stop that,” Ratchet huffed at Scope who had taken to amusing himself by kicking his feet against the leg on the berth, the irritating noise echoing around the meday. There had been worse patients than Scope, but the constant impatience had a way of grating on Ratchet’s nerves almost as much as a patient who whined. “There’s no point fighting it, we’re doing it because I said so and I’m the medic here. It’s a waste of both our time if I spend hours upgrading you only to find your processor can’t handle the amount of data it needs to. So sit still and try to be patient, I know you’re excited but we both want this to be done right.”

A ‘stress test’ Ratchet had called it and Scope wholeheartedly agreed with that term, he was certainly stressed, just not in the way Ratchet wanted him to be. 

Scope vented a quiet sigh and settled back, feet hooked around the supports of the berth, hands fisted on his thighs. Tensed into forced relaxation. 

All in all it had taken Scope nine weeks to finish saving for all his upgrades and another two after that for Ratchet to clear a day in his schedule to work on him. Those final two weeks had been the slowest of his life, the end goal felt further away the closer it came.

But finally the day had come and he’d set off with Perceptor at the crack of dawn. They’d had to wait for twenty minutes at the transport station for the early morning shuttle to the slums - which of course came later than the timetable said. Ratchet couldn’t use the Academy medbay for something that was considered his own work, so the surgery was happening at his clinic in the slums. Shattershock - the mech Ratchet had trained and who now ran the slum clinic - was doing house calls, so the medbay was closed and Ratchet had it all to himself. 

The slum medbay wasn’t as nice as the Academy one Scope was used to. Where the Academy was bright and flashy and new, the slum was full of second hand machines and equipment so old Ratchet had probably learnt on it himself. Someone worked hard to keep it clean and presentable, a never ending task what with the rust dust and heavy factory smell that never seemed to go away, then there was the mechs, endless streams of patients who dripped energon and oil from torn lines and left flakes of paint where they sat. Scope couldn’t say he was happy this was where his transformation was going to happen, but he’d take it over not having it at all.

Ratchet was focused on the readout console, monitoring the stream of data for abnormalities. With a few swift taps of his fingers, the real test started, the only part that caught Scope unawares. Everything led up to this point, so far everything Ratchet had tested Scope on had been within acceptable limits for his upgrades to work and his processor had handled it well, but now came the real test. Any signs of failure on Scope’s part and Ratchet would refuse the operation. There was no warning Scope, Ratchet wanted him to react as he would in a real situation, the results had to be real. Now the program simulated a full system failure, crashing itself down into a cascade of warnings. This was the part Ratchet had dreaded, the last time Scope’s processor had gone through a full cascade failure it had burned out most of his systems and nearly killed him. Scope was lucky he came out of that with just a coma. The medical program was safe and the failure was a simulation, no damage would be done, not that Scope knew that.

Scope struggled - as any mech would have - with the enormous mass of mirrored data that built up like a crescendo, forcing itself into every available space of memory. One by one his secondary systems dropped offline to divert much needed processor space to the onslaught. 

Uncomfortable as it was, Scope was determined not to fail and lose the opportunity for his upgrades. Offlining his optics, he pressed on through the ache and burn, letting his processor work through the problem and look for a solution. The point of comfort passed, dropping him head first into territory that felt terrifyingly close to the feeling he’d had before nearly dying.

But Ratchet was still there, finger hovering over the cancel button as watched him closely and the medipad graphed out the results. Scope trusted Ratchet more than anyone else and seeing him there with his face set in grim determination calmed him. If Ratchet wasn’t panicking then neither would he. It was hard not to fight what was happening and reach up to rip the wires from his head. With Perceptor the fear of abandonment still hovered in the dark recesses of his mind, it was the one thing that kept him from trusting his guardian implicitly. Ratchet was different, the medic had saved his life multiple times and asked for nothing in return, he simply did it because he wanted to. Ratchet had long ago earnt what little trust Scope had to give. 

Just when it felt like Scope could take no more, the test abruptly stopped, leaving his processor to lurch at the sudden nothingness. A nausea unlike anything he’d felt before flooded his frame, leaving him feeling weak and close to purging his tanks. It was like going from a room of screaming mechs to immediate silence and the sudden lack of noise was more than a little disconcerting. 

“How do you feel?” 

What a question. Scope could barely remember his name let alone string a sentence together. He couldn’t place the voice either, only that the question sounded like it was being screamed directly into his audials. He felt hypersensitive to the world around him, like even the air surrounding him was too heavy on his hot frame. Slowly he raised his index finger to let Ratchet know he needed a moment. 

System by system he came back online and slowly but surely his frame rebooted itself. Ratchet was pleased with the results, his patches to Scope’s processor were some of his best work if they could withstand that and not fail. The failure chance had been fairly high, but Ratchet wisely kept that to himself.

/That was horrible./

“It’s called a catastrophic shutdown, it’s similar to what happened to you before,” Ratchet explained, “simply put, that cascade of information you felt is what happens when all your upgrades fail at the same time and send too much data to your processor. That amount of information is something your processor can’t handle and without a shut off point, your processor would crash like it did before. I patched you in a shut off point when I fixed your processor, but it’s a lot lower than any other mechs. A catastrophic shutdown lets your processor cut off all outside information to protect itself and reboot your upgrades one at a time. The problem you’ll have is that because your shut off is so low you might find yourself constantly rebooting some upgrades. If that’s the case then you might have to settle for something less processor intensive for the problem pieces.”

/It feels bad./ Scope rubbed at his head, pointedly ignoring Ratchet’s warning. He’d picked his frame and wasn’t about to change it.

“I know it does, but at least now you know that you can probably manage the frame you’ve chosen.” 

That perked Scope right up, /so I passed?/

Ratchet chuckled, “better than I thought you would.” 

/So I can have my upgrades now?/ 

“Yes, you can have them now,” Ratchet smiled, “lay back and we’ll get started.” 

Scope’s head hit the berth before Ratchet even finished his sentence. The excitement that had ebbed away during the tests was back full force. When he woke up he’d be a real mech. 

\--------------

Ratchet found himself enjoying the task immensely, it made a nice change of pace from his usual patients where the majority of fixes were strained joints and torn cables. A full meticulous upgrade was something he hadn’t done in years. He was in his element as he delicately handled tiny filaments of wiring and soldered them in place. 

While Ratchet worked on the hardware, First Aid was in charge of the software. With a touch a delicate as Ratchet’s, First Aid blended new coding with old, seamlessly working it into Scope’s processor as if it had always been there. 

With a normal patient, Ratchet would add the upgrades and have the mech download the relevant coding once they were awake, but Scope was far from a normal patient and even with the excellent test results, Ratchet still worried over another processor breakdown. Having First Aid blend the new coding in by hand would hopefully bypass the nasty side effects. The disposable medic had a light touch, seamlessly blending old coding with new, hopefully, in a way Scope’s processor didn’t attack it like an antibody. If there was another mech who loved working with code as much as First Aid, Ratchet didn’t want to meet them and there was no one else - bar himself - that he trusted with such a delicate task.

Ratchet and First Aid worked seamlessly as a team, silently enjoying their own tasks while keeping an eye on the other. Years of working together had given them enough familiarity to know what was needed before it was asked. A better pair of medics there wasn’t on all of Cybertron. 

Although they didn’t work alone this time, Wheeljack had been brought along to make any armour alterations if the parts didn’t fit perfectly snug. It was nothing Ratchet couldn’t do himself, but having Wheeljack there saved time and allowed him to work on Scope without interruptions. It wasn’t the first time Wheeljack had played medic assistant and it wouldn’t be the last. 

Perceptor worked a few berths down, having taken one as a desk where he could work quietly to catch up on everything he’d been putting off. Aside from marking assignments he’d set out a week ago, there was still the task of finding places for all his students to intern over the long break. Most were sorted and had spots that would serve them well, others were more difficult. Tripwire being the hardest of all. Throughout all his teaching career, Perceptor had always offered his best student the chance to intern with him at his private lab, it gave the students incentive to work hard. Undoubtedly his best student this year was Tripwire, which left him with a big problem in the form of Scope. There would never be a time where Tripwire wasn’t going to be a sore subject for Scope and Perceptor didn’t think it was fair for him to force them together again. He’d thought about taking his second best student, but that would only cause a riot in his classroom. Everyone knew Tripwire had earned the right, offering the place to someone else would break their trust in their teacher. 

Perceptor rubbed his optics tiredly, there was no getting around it, Tripwire would be spending the break with them, personal feelings didn’t factor in. It would be a nasty surprise for Scope and something Perceptor dreaded having to tell him, especially after Scope had been so happy. Breaking that happiness just seemed cruel, especially when it was the object of his unhappiness that would be in his life again.

On the other hand it could be a good way for Scope to face his demons. There was even the small chance - however miniscule - that Scope could get the answers he so desperately wanted. Tripwire would bring his new disposable and if nothing else Scope could see there was no chance Tripwire was ever getting him back. That at the very least would put his mind at ease.

Only time would tell how it would really work out.

\---------

Fourteen hours of solid work and Ratchet was only just finishing. Some fiddly adaptors had eaten up three hours on their own, making the build take far longer than Ratchet had prepared for. Add to that some missing wiring that should have come connected to the barrel mount and it was the early hours of the morning when the tools were finally put away. 

By the time Scope was ready to be woken up, Perceptor was trying to hide his yawns, the early start and lack of recharge finally catching up with him. His work was finished, the essays graded, students all with places to intern - even if he was going to be paying back favours for months to come. The berth was finally clean again, left exactly as Perceptor found it. He moved closer to Scope when Ratchet started to wake him, but still kept his distance to let them work. 

Scope came around groggy as was to be expected after such a huge operation and looked around the room with bleary optics. His processor trying to recognise something in the room to tell him where he was and what had happened. Everything was unknown and a familiar panic rose in his chest, desperately he tried to sit up, but his frame was so heavy he could barely move. 

“Not so fast, Scope,” Ratchet said, his hand pressing down lightly on Scope’s chest, “let your processor catch up. Do you know where you are?”

Slowly, Scope turned his head to look at the medic, then at the room behind him. Empty berths, medical machinery and carts of operating tools, Scope knew a medbay when he saw one, even if this one had seen better days and wasn’t Ratchet’s immaculate academy one. /Medbay?/ The only reason he wasn’t deep in a panic at being in a strange medbay was the presence of Ratchet and the security that brought. 

Ratchet nodded, “Good, and do you remember why you’re here?”

At that point in time Scope didn’t. All he could focus on was how heavy everything felt, like he was suffocating under the weight of his frame. No matter how hard he tried, his arms remained flat to the berth, barely lifting a few inches with all his effort. Ratchet’s heavy hand on his chest didn’t help matters.

Scope searched his memory banks for clues. The last thing he remembered was walking with Perceptor through the ghost town of shuttered shops and empty roads. He’d been excited about something, something that had filled him with such energy he felt like he’d explode if he didn’t run and move fast. 

It was that strong sense of hyperactive excitement that stuck with him. Through his hazy memories it was the one thing that stood out as important, now if only he could remember why...

/Upgrades!/ That answered the two questions of why his frame felt so heavy and his processor so sluggish. The bubbling excitement was back full force, if Scope could have moved then he’d have been jumping on the berth, just like he’d planned in his fantasy. /Did you do it? Can I see? Does it look good?/ Scope didn’t need an answer to the last question, of course it looked good.

Ratchet answered with a nod and a smile as he explained it had been a success and Scope was once again a full working rifle. Scope begged to see himself, growing annoyed with Ratchet’s refusal to let him move yet.

Next came more tests, something Scope should have expected. It seemed that nothing about his upgrades was without the catch of hours of tests. Not even exciting kind of tests that Perceptor gave him to test his reading and writing, Ratchet’s tests were silly. There was nothing Scope could do but lay and obey, feeling stupid as he wriggled his fingers and toes on cue, then activated each upgrade one at a time and turned them off in a different order. Ratchet was searching for a problem in the coding, something First Aid might have missed, but Scope was working better than hoped.

“Right, I’m going to deactivate the inhibitor on the berth and you are not going to jump up or put any kind of stress on your frame. Understand?”

Scope nodded, sucking in a deep vent of surprise when the magnets deactivated from under him and his frame suddenly felt like his own again. The suffocating feeling was gone, his frame feeling lighter and easier to move. When Ratchet finally gave him permission to sit up, Scope bolted upright and regretted it instantly as the world spun around him and he fell back to the berth with a groan.

“What did I just say?” Ratchet chided, “slowly!”

Scope sat up slower next time, but still too fast for Ratchet’s liking. The medic tutted and shook his head, “you know, the more you continue to ignore me, the longer all this is going to take. You think you’re getting places faster when you rush, but all you’re doing is making waves in your fuel tank.”

/I will be slow,/ Scope agreed, if only because moving fast was actually making him feel quite ill. 

Using Ratchet’s hands to balance himself, Scope turned on the berth and slowly slipped to the floor on wobbly legs. Ratchet supported him and stopped him sliding strutlessly to the floor, and once Scope was ready to try walking, Ratchet moved with him. It was a slow process as Scope tried to coordinate his limbs into cooperating with his sedated processor.

How much easier it would have been just to pick Scope up and carry him to the mirror, but the pride in Scope would fight against such treatment. Anything that made Scope feel like a lesser mech was met with a fight, as his fuelling habits proved.

Together they inched towards the mirror, Scope’s eyes on the ground so he didn’t accidentally see anything too soon. Anticipation burned like fire through his frame, soon he’d see perfection. 

Only when he was square facing the mirror did he raise his optics.

His reflection caught him off guard. Scope gasped. Nothing had prepared him for quite how different and amazing it would look. The mech in the mirror was definitely him, only better than he’d ever looked before. Even when he’d been fresh off the assembly line his upgrades had been cheap, now he was made of quality and care. His frame didn’t look cheap, neither did it look overly showy, it was exactly the frame he’d wanted when he so carefully selected his upgrades. Slowly, Scope twisted and turned to see each part of his new frame from every available angle. 

Even unpainted and sporting bare metal, he was a sight to behold, gone was the frail, gangly looking mech that hunched forward and tried not to be seen or noticed. Now he stood tall, the backpiece pulling his shoulders back so he carried himself with an air of confidence, as if he wanted to be seen and admired. He’d picked his upgrades well and they looked good together. No, better than that, they looked fantastic! The long barrel gave him height while the rest of the parts bulked up his fame and took away the fragile look he’d known for so long. Breakable was a thing of the past, now Scope looked like he wouldn’t snap if the wind blew too hard. 

He could barely believe the mech reflected in the mirror was him. He was handsome! Even better than the high end military rifles in matte black armour with their head-turning yellow biolights. Nothing could convince Scope in that moment that he wasn’t the best looking rifle on all Cybertron. If he wasn’t now then he would be as soon as he was painted. 

Gingerly, Scope reached up to touch his chest, as if feeling himself would shatter the moment and reveal it as a cruel dream. Instead of a smokey dream his fingers found the light armour that protected his spark as solid as anything else he’d ever touched. 

He could feel the weight of the upgrades pulling on his frame, but touching them assured him they were really there. It was real, all real and the emotions of that revelation suddenly flooded him so fast he couldn’t react more than a choked sob of happiness. Primus, he was so handsome! 

“I feel like you’re still missing something,” Wheeljack said, his finger tapping against his mask thoughtfully. His tone was playful as he made a show of trying to figure out the missing ingredient.

Scope had been so preoccupied with checking himself out that he’d forgotten there were mechs still watching him. He turned his head slowly towards the engineer, almost offended that someone could say he wasn’t perfect when his reflection said otherwise. His mood shifted when he saw Wheeljack holding out a box for him. 

“It’s from all of us,” Wheeljack told him, the unseen smile clear in his body language, “to top off your upgrades.”

Scope turned away from the mirror and took a few heavy steps towards Wheeljack, his movements clumsy and wobbly, /what is it?/

“Open it and find out,” Ratchet chuckled, “that’s the idea of a gift.”

/A gift?/ Scope asked, cocking his head towards Ratchet as he tried to understand, /but you’ve already done so much for me./

“What’s one more thing between friends?” Ratchet replied, nodding towards the package and smiling, “go on, open it. Wheeljack spent a long time working on it and I’m sure he’s desperate to know what you think. He’s impatient that one.” 

Wheeljack just tutted, sure he was impatient but Ratchet had still picked him as a bondmate. That had to count for something. 

Scope took the box with a thank you and set it down on the berth he’d just vacated. The package didn’t weigh anything and came in a reused parts box, it didn’t look like anything special. Scope folded the top flaps back slowly, revealing layers of protective packaging. That was neatly placed to the side, next came protective soft beading to stop what was inside getting broken. Scope submerged his hand into the soft packing and felt around, his fingers latching on to something solid. It was a mask, Scope realised when he pulled it out. Not just an off the shelf model either, but one carefully designed to fit the aesthetics of his new frame, with a high faceplate to hide his lack of facial features and large blue optics that matched Perceptor’s. 

It wasn’t a face like he’d wanted, but in a way it was better. Something that was truly unique to him. 

Without a mouth he was still restricted to fueling with an injector, a definite downside to the design, but the faceplate was long and elegant, more fitting with his frame. Whoever designed it had done so with care, taking the time to carefully match it to his personality, smart, sleek and not overly showy. It would have been easy to give Scope a faceplate and visor as was the usual disposable look. Instead the optics and nose ridge of this mask gave the impression he had a face under the faceplate. 

Scope held the mask up as gently as if it were made of glass, /it’s wonderful./ What else could he say? The words were caught in his throat like they were coated in superglue. Nothing could describe the pure joy he felt of finally having something that could be called a face. 

/Thank you so much,/ he finally managed to choke out. 

Wheeljack beamed, “I’m glad you like it. It’s not just a mask though, those optics are specially designed for you. They should - if Ratchet gave me the correct measurements - give you eyesight as good as any mechs. Think of them like glasses, but built into your face. It should also transform with you so you don’t need to remove it, that part might need a little tweaking though.”

That just made it even better! /Really? I’ll really be able to see well and never have to take it off?/

“That’s the idea,” Wheeljack replied, “no point giving you a mask that doesn’t have an actual function where you need it to.”

Ratchet took the mask from Scope, “it’s probably going to give you a processor ache while you adjust to it. If it gets too much then take it off and give yourself a rest for a while, you will eventually get used to it though. It’s simply that your processor is already going to be overstimulated with the new upgrades, this could make it worse.” 

Scope didn’t care if it killed him, he had a face now and he was never taking it off!

He nodded anyway, just to look like he was agreeing. Ratchet knew better but trusted Perceptor to keep an eye on him and step in if things looked like they were getting too much. 

“Offline your optics and I’ll put it on for you.” 

Scope did just that and tilted his head back to give Ratchet better access. There was a slight pressure over his entire face then a loud click as the mask snapped into place. 

“Whenever you’re ready.” 

Scope kept his optics offline for a few moments longer, savouring the feeling of knowing he was one step closer to being a real mech. Although no amount of time could have prepared him for what came next.

He onlined his optics to a world he’d never seen before, one of perfect focus, sharp colours, distinct lines and depth. No more blobs of colour and blurred edges! It had never even occurred to him that his eyesight was that bad, but now he’d seen the light - literally.

He could easily make out the sign by the door over on the other side of the room. The crisp lettering bold against the grey wall. A wall made of individual tiles, not one solid structure. The details he’d never seen before were suddenly everything he wanted and more.

/Everything looks amazing!/ He said in awe, /I can’t believe this is what it’s supposed to look like./

There was so much to look at in the medbay and he eagerly took it all in. He could even see the fine scratches in the berth from years of use. Tiny details he never would have know existed with his old eyesight. 

He turned back to the mirror, taking in his new frame with better vision. The mask looked great and now it was in place looked more like a face than it had in his hands. The top half of the mask recessed back under his helm like an actual face would, the faceplate now looking like a later addon for protection. The illusion was perfect and the results would amaze Scope for weeks to come.

“It looks really good on you,” Perceptor said from the other side of the berth, finally joining in as he watched Scope preening in the mirror.

Scope spun on his heels and took a long look at his owner, a real look. More than a blur of red, teal and black, Perceptor was a solid mass of sharp, clean edges and well kept paint, so glossy and smart and handsome! More handsome than Scope had imagined. 

Primus, now Scope knew he was going to look amazing at Perceptor’s side. The mechs at the market with the million credit upgrades would wish they looked as good as him. 

/Thank you!/ Scope practically glowed under the praise. He turned to Wheeljack then, /thank you for making my mask, I love it. It’s perfect./

“You’re welcome, but I can’t take all the credit, Percy designed it.”

“Joint effort,” Perceptor teased back.

Scope turned to face the mirror again, unable to tear himself away from it for long. A lot of care and design had gone into his whole frame, perhaps it answered the question of why Perceptor had been coming home so late the past few weeks. Scope felt blessed to have friends that made him feel so special.

The only downside to his new upgrades was how sore his body was. His entire frame ached with an oversensitivity he hadn’t felt since he’d been stripped to his protoform. His processor now dealing with so much tactile and visual information felt sluggish and slow. Those things alone he could deal with, it was how heavy he felt that was the problem. He’d only been standing for ten minutes and he was exhausted, the thought of walking home was not appealing.

Scope staggered, suddenly struck with tiredness. Wheeljack lunged and caught him before he fell, “I think that’s enough excitement for today don’t you think, Ratch?”

Ratchet nodded and grabbed for a syringe, “yep, time for you to go home, fuel up and recharge for a few days. I know you’re going to be eager to transform and go shooting, but I don’t want you doing that until I say it’s ok. Your processor is dealing with enough right now, it doesn’t need you adding to the stress it’s under.”

Honestly Scope hadn’t even considered transforming, he’d been happy just to look at himself, but now it had been mentioned it was all he wanted. To be a rifle cradled against Perceptor’s shoulder was something he craved, even before the upgrades, it was where he belonged.

“I mean it, Scope,” Ratchet said, looking Scope directly in the eye and pinning him with his best angry medic look, “don’t do it. You’ll do yourself damage that I don’t want to have to fix. Promise me.”

Scope didn’t want to promise, he wanted to transform right now just to feel himself as he was supposed to be. He needed to feel that pleasure course through his systems. /How long can’t I do it for?/

“Until I say you can.”

Despite his need, Scope couldn’t disobey Ratchet when the medic had been so good to him. /I promise./ He ducked his head low, submissive, hiding his disappointment at being denied his true form.

“Give it a few days and I’ll see how your processor is faring under the strain. We’ll do your favourite thing, more tests.”

Scope chuckled, unable to feel sad for long when his new frame was looking so spectacular. After so long without any hope of transforming a few days more wouldn’t hurt.

\----------------

The drive home felt slow to Scope. The sedatives and painkillers Ratchet had given him to help him through the night had worked almost instantly, the side effect being the equivalent of being drunk on highgrade. Scope was a very, happy drunk, he rolled around on the berth inside Ratchet’s alt mode and giggled uncontrollably. 

/You’re an ambulance, put your screamers on so we can go faster!/ 

His request went answered and Ratchet continued to drive at the same speed. The first five times he’d been asked he’d explained that he couldn’t use them unless it was an emergency, after that it was just easier to ignore Scope with his three second memory. 

As predicted Scope forgot his request a few seconds later and moved to stare out of the window at the buildings speeding by. His perfect vision still amazing him. /Ratchet?/

Ignored again.

/Ratchet? Ratchet?/ Scope frowned and rolled onto his stomach, staring up towards the cab as if that would make a difference, like he was actually addressing the medic. /Raaaatchet?/

“What Scope?” Ratchet finally asked, the sing-song call of his name finally taking his attention off the road.

/You’re really nice./ Scope said, /Wheeljack’s nice too, but you’re my favourite of everyone./

“Thank you,” Ratchet replied, unsure what else to say to that. 

/I like you,/ continued Scope, /you found me Perceptor. I like him too, so don’t tell him you’re my favourite. It’s our secret!/

Ratchet chuckled quietly, “lay down, Scope. You’re going to end up on the floor if you keep moving around.” 

Scope giggled and flattened himself to the berth in dramatic fashion, arms and legs spread wide, /Look! I’m a star now./

“You’re certainly a something,” Ratchet deadpanned back. 

It was easier to ignore Scope’s childish antics than to answer the constant, mindless stream of questions. Ratchet’s job was done, Perceptor could deal the endless questions and observances of a drunken mech, one who would forget what he’d asked mere seconds after asking. 

For a mech who preferred not to talk at all, Scope didn’t stop for the entire journey. Ratchet listened with half an ear, on the off chance Scope said something that actually required his input. Scope didn’t, he was happy to try and explain the family tree of one of his soaps, complete with a detailed analysis of who he thought was sleeping with who, backed up with canon evidence. 

If there was any doubt over Scope’s intelligence, Ratchet had none after hearing him talk so passionately. Every small detail in the actor’s delivery had been analysed and graded, each scene unpicked until the ‘truth’ was found. Things that wouldn’t matter to the average viewer became gaping chasms to Scope who had a desperate need to fill every plot hole with evidence and facts.

Ratchet sent Perceptor a comm note to get Scope some mystery novels, the type where the murderer wasn’t revealed until the last chapter and the entire plot gave everyone motive. If Scope enjoyed putting so much work into the small details then those kind of stories would be exactly his kind of thing.

Scope wasn’t halfway through his talk when they pulled up outside Perceptor’s block of apartments. He’d been busily explaining how Whitenoise - the shows beacon of goodness and purity - was actually a manipulative mastermind who was trying to steal his brother’s bondmate.

“As much as I hate to end this here,” Ratchet told him, “it’s late and you need to go and recharge.”

/I’m not even tired!/ A lie, he was exhausted and the sedatives were working. Despite his protests he didn’t complain when the back doors opened and he could cling to Perceptor’s warm frame. 

After some quick goodbyes and a song of ‘thank yous’ from Scope, Ratchet took off, leaving Perceptor with a very giggly and talkative Scope. 

Perceptor carried him inside, a task made unnecessarily hard by the constant squirming and giggle fits. 

Scope leaned back in the hold as Perceptor carried him inside, stretching for the top of the door frame. He couldn’t reach so dropped his hands, rougher than he planned onto his face, slapping himself and letting out a shocked hiss. /Owwww./ He whined, rubbing at the bridge of his nose like he’d seen Perceptor do countless times before. /Look, look! I have a face!/

“Yes you do, do you like it?” The planning that had gone into it had taken weeks. Scope was just lucky Wheeljack liked a challenge and was more than happy to work on it during his free time. No doubt Ratchet would be glad to see the end of Wheeljack working on it while they all rested as a family in front of the tv...who was he kidding, Wheeljack would have a new project as soon he got in.

Scope nodded, /I love it. Am I handsome now?/

“I thought you were handsome before, you don’t need upgrades to be handsome.” 

That was obviously the wrong answer because Scope whined and poked at Perceptor’s face, /no. Now I am as handsome as you!/ He giggled at that and poked Perceptor’s cheek again, /we are very handsome together! Except I am naked./ He laughed at that and kicked his feet, /do you like me naked?/

Perceptor stayed quiet, suddenly overcome with thoughts, he didn’t have a reply for that anyway. This Scope was a different mech to the one he knew, he was so unguarded and friendly, eager to touch and be held. That raised the question of how much of the real Scope still lay hidden behind the personality he’d crafted to survive. What lay hidden behind the walls Scope threw up every morning?

For the first time in their entire friendship, Scope addressed Perceptor by name. Not even by his full name, but by his nickname, bypassing the polite option completely and waltzing into the territory only a few mechs dared to tread. It took Perceptor aback and for a moment he couldn’t think of a response. 

/Percy, Percy, Percy,/ Scope chanted, giggling maniacally, /your name is funny when it’s short./ He hummed for a moment, deep in thought, /I can’t have a short name. If I did it would be Sco and that’s silly, or I could use the end of my name like Jack does...that would make me ‘Pe’./ That set off heavy laughter and another round of excited wriggling, /My name is Peeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee./

Perceptor muffled a smile, glad it was too early in the morning for anyone else to witness this spectacle. He didn’t trust Scope not to say something that would get them into trouble. There was little doubt in his mind that if another mech entered the elevator then Scope would tell them he was more handsome than them.

“How about you just stick with Scope?” Perceptor suggested, watching the elevator’s numbers light up as they passed each floor, “It’s an excellent name for you, it suits both a rifle and a scientist.”

/It does?/

“Yes, it suits you as a rifle because you have a scope, but as a scientist your name could be the shortened version of microscope or a thermoscope, and there are many more variants that are all equally plausible. You have the perfect name for a scientist rifle.”

/It is!/ He bounced with excitement and Perceptor struggled to keep hold of him. Just when Perceptor thought he was about to drop him, Scope froze. /I’m smart, why didn’t I think of that?/ Just for that reason alone he HAD to be a scientist now. Of all the names he could have been given, it seemed like fate to be given one that suited him. Maybe Primus was giving him a sign. More likely it was Tripwire who’d decided it was the best name to use around a classroom filled with wannabe scientists. The thought that Tripwire had been smarter than him about his own name filled Scope with a fresh round of burning anger towards his former owner. 

“You are smart, you would have figured it out eventually.” 

/Yes,/ Scope puffed out his chest and purred his engine with pride, Tripwire forgotten /I am smart, but now I am handsome and smart!/

The lift doors opened onto their floor, the hallway thankfully empty as Perceptor made quick work of carrying Scope to their apartment. For a mech as light as Scope, he wasn’t the easiest cargo to hold. 

Once they were safely inside and the their door closed and bolted, Perceptor set Scope down on his own two feet and watched with some amusement as the rifle staggered around and shouted at the room for moving too fast around him. 

“Go and sit down, I’ll bring you your cube.”

Perhaps Perceptor should have specified he meant go and sit at the table. Scope just dropped to the floor where he was, having decided not to try and fight the spinning room on his shaky legs. He looked happy with his choice of seating and crossed his legs under him. Walking didn’t seem like a task he was capable of at the moment.

“Wouldn’t you rather sit at the table?” Perceptor asked.

Scope looked accusingly at the table that seemed further away than ever. Good depth perception was something he’d have to get used to. /No, it keeps walking away. It’s a rude table./

“You can tell it that in the morning,” Perceptor said. He made quick work of his own cube, drinking it down fast while he filled the injector with warm energon for Scope.

As soon as Perceptor knelt beside the rifle with the injector in hand, a switch flipped in Scope, within seconds he went from cheerful to defensive, darting across the room with his hand splayed over his fuel port. As far away from Perceptor as his uncooperative frame would move. /No! I can do it! I can do it./ 

Perceptor sighed, he’d hoped tonight would be easy and Scope would accept the help without any fuss. Without a doubt his next task was teaching Scope to fuel in company, even if he had to resort to injecting his own fuel to accustom Scope to seeing it done by a ‘real’ mech. Try as he might Perceptor couldn’t see the problem with injection fueling, it was statistically the dominant fueling method. Trying to find a solution to a problem he didn’t understand was difficult and he knew he risked making it worse if he acted in the wrong way.

“Please, Scope. It’s late and I’m tired, just let me do this for you and we can go and recharge. You’re never going to be able to get the nozzle in with what little coordination you have.”

Scope adamantly shook his head and reached out for the injector, /I can do it myself./

Perceptor sighed and handed it over. Scope snatched it up and cradled it to his chest as he turned to face away from the other mech. While Scope thought it was hidden, Perceptor clearly saw him aim for the port three times and miss it by a mile, scratching the nozzle down his side with a sickening scratching noise. 

“Are you sure you don’t want help?” Perceptor asked again, more gently this time. 

/No,/ Scope hissed, /I just can’t do it with you watching, it makes me uncomfortable./ 

Wearily, Perceptor stood, “I’m going to get ready for bed, join me when you’re done.” 

Scope nodded and once Perceptor had left the room tried again. And again. And again. The thin nozzle was ridiculously hard to aim into the tiny opening, even on a good day. It was as if the factory had deliberately designed it to be hard. Scope was certain there had to be an easier way. 

There was no careful aiming for Scope, it was pure luck that eventually found the nozzle click into place. Finally fuelled - the energon now cold, the question of how long he’d been sitting there now on his mind - he stood and left the injector on the counter to deal with later.

Perceptor was already in the berth when Scope entered the bedroom, his frame draped in a light blanket as he dozed and struggled to stay awake and keep one ear open in case Scope needed him. He needn’t have worried, Scope was too proud to ask for help, especially with fuelling. One thing Scope had in droves was determination, not always a good thing paired with his pride. 

Scope dropped down onto the berth heavier than he intended, still clumsy with the weighty upgrades. He spent a moment sitting hip to hip with Perceptor, his hands stretched out in front of him so he could see the matte grey metal in the dim light of the window. It seemed strange that the same time yesterday he had been his old self, but now he felt complete and correct. /I’m so handsome,/ he murmured, /I’m a proper mech now./ 

“You always were,” Perceptor replied, his voice betraying how exhausted he was. He reached up to pull Scope down against him, “your frame will still be upgraded tomorrow, you can look at it more then.” 

Scope hummed a pleased little sound and draped himself in his favoured position over Perceptor’s chest. His last thought before recharge was a wish to see Tripwire again - after he’d been painted - just for the chance to rub in how good he looked. Not that Tripwire would probably care.


End file.
